


Without Love

by londoninjune



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst, Bisexual John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 57,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londoninjune/pseuds/londoninjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after the events of Season 3, Sherlock and John are sent out of the country to hunt down Jim Moriarty.  What they discover along the way, about themselves and each other, may very well be the ammunition they need to destroy Moriarty once and for all.</p><p>This is a story about the power of love, and of it’s ability to triumph in the end, despite all odds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Caged

 

“Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn’t. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame.” ― Richard Siken

Now imagine you're given the choice, between living without love, or with it.  Which would you choose?

 ______________________________

 

A late spring chill threatened to seep through the large front gap of her coat and into her bones. It was difficult to keep warm these days with her extremely large belly protruding past every cardigan and coat, but Mary was stubborn and unwilling to part with her favourite clothes, even for a few months of pregnancy.

She clasped the collar tightly around her chest with frozen fingers while she walked down the dimly lit street and to her flat. Damn the neighbours for taking all of the close parking spots, forcing her to park two blocks away. As loath as she was to admit it, walking two blocks while eight months pregnant, quickly turning into nine, was not the easiest task.

At last she reached the door, unlocked it and slipped into the welcoming warmth of the hallway. Up a flight of stairs and to her door, and that’s when she hesitated. The door was unlocked and slightly ajar. She stepped inside, her right hand feeling bereft with the lack of a firearm, as her eyes scanned the area with precision. No precision was needed. Sitting in the darkness, without an ounce of care, and an air of amusement was James Moriarty.

“Hello Poppet. Have fun seeing the happy couple off?” His Irish lilt broke through the darkness.

Mary flicked on the light and removed her purse and coat, hanging them both on the rack. “What are you doing here?” She was tired, her feet were killing her and all she wanted was a nice hot soak in the tub, some crap telly and bed. The last thing she wanted was a little chat with Jim.

“Tut, tut. That’s no way to greet me after such a long separation. Did you miss me? I missed you.” A smile crept slowly onto his face, crinkling his eyes. He was lounging in John’s usual armchair, legs crossed, foot bouncing playfully in the air. He looked like a petulant child in an expensive suit.

Mary didn’t grace him with an answer, instead she went into the kitchen and began making herself a cup of tea.

“I’ll have a cup as well dear.” Jim’s voice called out to her. She grit her teeth and slammed another mug down onto the counter.

Moments later she reemerged with two mugs. She handed one to Jim, then went to the sofa and sat. She took a sip of tea, placed her feet up on the coffee table, and sighed in relief.

All the while Jim watched her keenly over the lip of his steaming cuppa. He had always reminded her of a predator watching his prey. It creeped other people out but it didn’t phase her in the least. She had grown used to his gaze a long time ago.

“It’s like watching a nature program.” Jim giggled at his own observation then took a sip of tea.

Mary rolled her eyes and decided to indulge him. For old time’s sake. “Har, Har. I get it, I look like a bloody hippo.” She smiled sweetly and resumed sipping her tea.

Jim put his mug down and leaned back into the chair. “You’re right, you do. Hippo aside, that wasn’t what I referring to.” He quirked his head to the side and looked at her for a bit. Letting the silence drag. Then, “I was referring to this.”

Mary waited for him to clarify, but he didn’t. He simply sat, lounging back in his chair, looking like a spoilt child who refused to go to bed until his mum agreed to play his little game. She just wanted to take that fucking bath. “This?” she enquired stupidly, though she knew exactly where the conversation was going.

He smiled gleefully. “This,” he gestured to their surroundings, “cage you’ve placed yourself in. It’s like watching a wild animal being beaten into submission. It’s fascinating.”

Her expression turned ice cold. “I didn’t place myself here.”

His smile only increased at the sight of her seriousness. “No, you didn’t.” Silence dragged out again. “But… You got a bit carried away didn’t you?”

Her hand went to her protruding belly, rubbing it absentmindedly with her thumb.

Jim leaned forward in his chair, but didn’t reach for his tea, growing cold on the coffee table. “What is it about John Watson? The broken soldier who magically transforms psychopaths into cuddly little teddy bears?”

Mary emptied her mug and waited, holding his gaze across the dimly lit room. Jim hadn’t changed. He wanted to have his fun and it was only a matter of letting him have it before he would leave.

“Is it the sex? If so, perhaps I should take my turn. I wonder if it would work on me.”

She didn’t respond, just sat and watched him, still as a statue.

“Although...” He made a show of taking a sip of his tea, setting it down, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs once again. His designer shoe swayed back and forth, reflecting the table lamp in it’s black leather sheen, “sex must not be the magic ingredient, though. We both know Sherlock is still a sad little virgin and Johnny boy still keeps his bisexuality locked away in a closet somewhere. Still, you’re worried about them aren’t you? On a plane to Paris, together, alone. The City of Looooove.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She struggled a bit to sit up straight, then placed her mug on the coffee table with a loud plop. “Why are you here Jim?”

His expression transitioned from petulant child to positively reptilian in a matter of seconds. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You know better than anyone. Tell me, how many times did he accidentally say Sherlock’s name instead of yours? I’m dying to know.” His tone took on that of a gossiping teenage girl.

Mary didn’t react, simply repeated even toned, “why are you here?”

Jim’s foot continued to sway lazily, while his left hand traced the seem of fabric on the arm rest. Then his face broke into a childish scrunched expression of annoyance. “You’re no fun. I remember you being more fun.”

She just looked at him, inwardly groaning.

Finally he stood, moved to the couch and sat down next to her, their outer thighs touching. His hand landed on her back, then made it’s way upwards to rest on her neck. She turned and looked at him. His expression was fond, kind even.

“My poppet.” His thumb tangled into the shorts strands of her hair. “I came here to say hello. It’s been too long.” Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek. He smelled like expensive cologne and aftershave. Memories slammed into her on the wave of his all too familiar scent. He rested his cheek against hers and spoke quietly into her ear. “And to remind you that nothing happens outside of my will. The happy couple is in Paris because I want them there, and you are here, in the heart of domesticity, because I put you here. You all belong to me.” The pressure of his cheek disappeared with a soft breeze.

Mary sat still, un-watching as Jim stood, straightened his suit and walked to the door. “See you soon darling.”

Once the front door had shut with a soft click, Mary stood and made her way to the bathroom. She watched the tub fill with steaming hot water. She wasn’t supposed to take hot baths while pregnant, if John were here he would scold her for it, but what John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Their life together was built on a foundation of secrets and lies, might as well toss another one onto the pile.

She stripped, turned the tap off once it was half full and climbed in.

The minutes passed in silence as she lay there, staring at her stomach. The baby kicked inside of her as if she were trying to break free and escape the hot bath water. Mary watched as her skin pushed outwards with each swift kick. She was filled with a sudden longing to see it happen, to see her skin break open and to watch her daughter escape the cage she was in.


	2. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After awhile John’s hand stilled, and he stared. Even bruised and swollen, Sherlock was beautiful. Especially now, with his head resting gently in the palm of John’s hand. His skin damp, and his expression relaxed. He was ethereal. It took John’s breath away.

Sweat trickled down his neck and into the crisp fold of his white shirt collar. The building they were in was old, filled to brimming with men, without ventilation, and no air unit. John was wrapped up in the middle of it, cocooned by hot and musky humidity. The sensation was all too reminiscent of his army days.

Somewhere jazz music was playing, but it was mere background noise, mostly drowned out by the sound of whooping and hollering going on a few yards away at the craps table. The table John sat at was nestled in the quietest corner possible, but it was to little avail, most of the gambling tables surrounding them were loud. Poker was one of the few quiet competitions.

John pushed his pile of remaining chips into the pot. All in.

Peter Quinto eyed John narrowly from across the smoke filled table. Peter (who was often referred to as Q because his head resembled that of a Q-tip) was largely built, dressed in a tan linen suit.  He had sickly white skin, and eyes the colour of dollar bills. Eyes that were sharp, and didn’t miss a trick. John leaned back into his seat with the ease of a skilled and confident gambler.

“Victor,” Peter spoke, with an unusually high, russian accent-tinged voice. Sherlock had told John that Peter Quinto was an alias, in a place like this everyone had an alias, including John, who was currently known as Victor Trevor. “I think you are bluffing.”

John folded his arms and smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

The green eyes never left his as Peter pushed his enormous stack of chips into the centre of the table with sweaty round hands. The other men at the table, and the ones crowded around them, hummed in astonishment. John took his time, never breaking his gaze with the man seated across from him. He leaned forward slowly, took his hand of cards, and laid them out on the table with exact precision. “Flush.” A few low whistles resounded behind him. Peter’s eyes flickered then filled with anger as he threw his hand down in disgust. A Straight. John had won by the skin of his teeth.

The table erupted around them. Some of the men were angry, some were shocked, a few patted John on the back in congratulations. Through it all Peter’s heavy gaze never lifted from John’s. John just smiled at him, the cat who’d got the cream.

After gathering all of his chips and bidding his table goodbye, John made his way to the cash-in booth, regularly manned by a young man named Francois.

Francois greeted John with his usually genuine smile and thick French accent. “Won again Victor, eh?”

John chuckled as he handed over his chips. “Yeah, you could say so.”

“Fuck,” Francois’ small brown eyes went wide, “this is quite a winning.”

“It is,” John murmured distractedly, scanning the crowd as the boy disappeared into the back to exchange his chips.

Four nights had passed since they had arrived in Paris. The first night had been spent jet lagged and elbow deep in a stack of files filled with names and faces they had to memorise in addition to their own fake identities.

Four nights and John had only seen five of the dozen men they were looking for. He had only spoken to three of them. Sherlock had been luckier, but he was also involved in the seedier side of things. John’s jaw twitched at the thought of it. As if on cue there was a loud eruption near the door. A man entered, shouted something in French, and suddenly a large portion of patrons got up and followed amid the clamour.

John turned and looked for Francois, but he was still out of sight. Shouting from the street grew louder. “Francois?” John called out to the boy. There was no answer. John’s hand clenched.

Irrational fear kicked inside of his ribs like a lead pipe. With one last fleeting glimpse at the empty cash-in booth, John turned on his heal and marched out of the gambling hall and into the cool night air.

Waves of adrenaline crashed through John’s veins as he turned the corner of the street into an alley. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the crowd of men shouting. Ten swift steps and he was at the outer edge of the mob with no clear path to the centre. It was like facing a wall.

“Excuse me.” He shoved, and pushed, and dug his way past flailing limbs hellbent on keeping him out. But John was skilled and small and more than determined.

The moment he broke through to the centre, his deepest intuition proved to be true. Two men were there within the makeshift arena. One was short, thickly-muscled, and spitting out blood. The other was Sherlock.

The first night they had come here Sherlock had partaken in the same street fighting tournament, and had won every match with flying colours. He had made it out with barley a scratch to the face, and a few bruised knuckles. John had been shocked, disapproving, and a tiny bit pleased. The doctor in him rallied against the idea of Sherlock doing this, but the Captain was more than a bit proud of Sherlock’s victory that night.

But this was different. This was not going well. Sure, Sherlock’s opponent was currently spitting up blood, but Sherlock himself looked like a heaving mass of broken flesh. It took every ounce of John’s not inconsiderable self-control not to storm into the ring and drag Sherlock to safety. If John could be certain it wouldn’t blow their cover, he would have done so already.

Once Sherlock’s opponent finished spitting blood, he lifted his head and eyed Sherlock darkly.

The lean muscles on Sherlock’s shirtless back rippled under the dim light. He looked feral, like a hunted animal that had taken several blows. Still clawing. Desperate for survival. Sherlock was a skilled fighter, but no amount of skill could stand up against exhaustion.

The two men circled each other in an atmosphere thick with cigarette smoke and testosterone. Jazz music continued to play softly from somewhere down the road as the crowd pushed and pulsed around him, shouting obscenities. John clenched his jaw and waited.

Sherlock struck first, snakelike, but his attack was blocked and parried in full as knuckle met flesh. John watched in slow motion as Sherlock’s head snapped sideways and a spray of blood flew into the air. The crowd cheered, and boo’d in equal measure, as John dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to keep from joining in.

The pair of fighters resumed their circling. The shorter man went in for another attack but Sherlock dodged, grabbed his opponents arm and twisted it hard and fast. A cry of pain rang out and the crowd went wild once again.

But Sherlock barely had time to react when the other man struck back immediately with a left hook to the abdomen and a knee to the groin. That’s when it got ugly. A hand grabbed Sherlock’s sweat drenched hair while the other hand punched him repeatedly.

John could hear the sick sound of bone and flesh meeting over, and over, and over again. It was louder than the roar of the crowd around them. Louder than the rush of adrenaline pulsing through his own veins.

After what felt like hours of listening to that noise, John stepped into the arena. He could dimly hear the protests, was vaguely aware of the mob grabbing at him, trying to keep him out of the fight. “I’m a Doctor,” he explained. The hands released him. Either they had understood him, or they had decided one more fight wouldn’t be too much of a hardship. John didn’t care.

He removed his suit jacket, and let it fall to the ground. He rolled up his sleeves, one at a time, with practiced ease. The ease of a surgeon, a doctor, a fighter. Someone who was used to getting their hands dirty, one way or another.

The other fighter was of similar size and build to John. He had finally finished his manic punching spree, releasing Sherlock’s hair and letting him crumple to the ground at his feet. John didn’t think, didn’t pause to consider the potential ramifications, he simply grabbed the man by the shoulder, spun him around and punched him squarely in the face. The crowd went ballistic.

It was like stepping into a warm bath after a long day out in the cold rain. It was like slipping into freshly laundered sheets or listening to an album you hadn’t heard in ages. Hand-to-hand combat was second nature to John. A nature, that to some degree, felt more comfortable to him than his own.

The fighter recovered from the punch quickly. He wasn’t shocked, or surprised by his new competition. He looked hungry. They circled each other once, but John had fresh strength and energy on his side. Really, it was no competition at all.

John doled out another punch, then a right hook to the solar plexus, knee to the face. The man staggered back, blood dripping from his nose, blinking rapidly, trying to regain focus. Big mistake. One roundhouse kick and the man went down without so much as a whimper.

John took one moment to breath in his victory before grabbing his suit jacket off of the ground and rushing to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock was busy trying to stand again without much luck. John draped the suit jacket over Sherlock’s bare shoulders, took his arm, and placed himself under it while lifting them up. Sherlock sunk into his side like a sack of flour.

“John,” he mumbled quietly into John’s ear.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured him, while taking almost the entire weight of Sherlock onto his shoulders—all six feet of him. “You tall git,” John ground out as he manoeuvred them through the crowd.

He managed to push them through and out of the alley into the dimly lit street ahead. Taxis were scarce and Sherlock’s head kept lolling on John’s shoulder as they moved further down the block, and closer to the main street.

“Sherlock,” John punctuated with an upwards jab of his shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep, stay with me.” He repeated this several times before he was able to get a taxi to tuck himself and Sherlock into.

“Take us to the Concorde Opera,” John ordered the driver as the taxi sped off into the night. He turned his attention to Sherlock, who’s head hung forward as if detached from his neck. John twisted his torso to face Sherlock as much as possible, grabbed Sherlock’s face in both hands, and lifted upwards so that he could see the damage more clearly.

“Sherlock,” John reminded him, “you need to stay with me.” His face was covered in blood, but his nose didn’t appear to be broken. There was a sharp cut on his lip and another above his brow that would probably need to be stitched. Mostly he was swollen and bruised. Purple and black blotches were already blooming under his pale skin.

John probed at his face with steady thumbs, making sure nothing was broken, Sherlock hissed. “Steady,” John whispered, “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock let out another moan of pain, but nothing was broken. At this point John was more concerned about a possible concussion. “Open your eyes,” John urged.

It took a few moments for Sherlock to comply. It seemed to cause him pain to do it, and John couldn’t get a good look at his pupils in the dim light. He would have to check again at their hotel. Christ, John thought, what was it going to look like when they stepped into the lobby like this?

Sherlock closed his eyes again and leaned back into the safety of John’s side. Nearly nuzzling into his neck. John smiled while sinking his hand into Sherlock’s damp curls. “You can’t fall asleep,” John spoke quietly into the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like ‘uh huh’ then buried himself deeper into John’s neck. John kissed the top of his head without thinking while a wash of relief swept over him. “I’ve got you,” John repeated for good measure.

John transferred them from the taxi to the hotel lobby with surprising ease. Sherlock kept his head buried within the crook of John’s neck as they shuffled hastily to the elevators.

The concierge made eye contact with John as they passed the front desk. “Too much to drink,” John whispered in an apologetic tone. The concierge raised a single eyebrow in response. John hoped there wasn’t too much blood showing on his white button down shirt.

Once the elevator doors closed, John adjusted them so that they were facing each other, his hands braced on either side of Sherlock’s head. “Look at me,” he prompted, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles into Sherlock’s temples.

Sherlock groaned in protest, eyes tightly shut against the glaring light. “Sherlock, I need you to look at me,” John urged more sternly.

His eyes fluttered and opened a crack as another moan left Sherlock’s lips. “Hurts,” he vocalised miserably.

John gently brushed the curls from Sherlock’s forehead. “I know, but I need to check your pupils.”

Sherlock nodded, winced, then held his eyes open wider.

“Good,” John murmured aloud, “they look good.” He offered Sherlock a smile, and Sherlock’s eyes softened in return.

Further relief flooded John. Moderate concussion, no internal bleeding or swelling. He didn’t even noticed he was stroking Sherlock’s bruised cheekbone with the pad of his thumb till the lift doors opened with a soft ‘ping’.

John shifted them again, returning Sherlock to his side, draping his arm around his shoulders and steering them off to their suite.

Once inside the room, John lead them to the very large bathroom and flicked on the light.

“Here you go.” He shifted Sherlock once again till he had him sat on the edge of tub. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock muttered, his head already falling forward.

“And don’t fall over,” John added. “I don’t need you hitting your head again.” He exited the bathroom and went to the closet to retrieve the medical kit he had brought with him from London.

He re-entered the bathroom and washed his hands with pre-surgery precision. Then he wet a flannel, and turned and kneeled at Sherlock’s feet on the cold, hard tile.

“Let’s clean you up then, shall we?” John cradled the back of Sherlock’s head in one hand, then ran the cold damp flannel over Sherlock’s face with the other.

Sherlock moaned, then let out a breath.

John paused. “Hurts?” he asked quietly.

“No.” Sherlock breathed in slowly, “feels good.”

Minutes passed silently by, while John gently washed away all of the blood, dirt and sweat from Sherlock’s face. Even after the skin had been thoroughly cleaned, John continued. It seemed to bring Sherlock comfort, judging by the quiet humming sounds he made every time the damp cloth made a sweep across his fevered skin.

It comforted John as well.

The events of the night re-played themselves in his head. He could still hear the thick meaty punch of flesh meeting flesh. Could still smell the sharp tang of blood as it dripped onto the ground, while John stood and watched Sherlock getting hit over and over and over again.

His hand gently ran the cloth over a particularly dark bruise located below Sherlock’s left eye. He wished he could wipe it away, wipe away all of the dark bruises that now mottled Sherlock’s pale skin, but medicine didn’t work like that. Battles left marks, sometimes scars. John knew from experience.

After awhile John’s hand stilled, and he stared. Even bruised and swollen, Sherlock was beautiful. Especially now, with his head resting gently in the palm of John’s hand. His skin damp, and his expression relaxed. He was ethereal. It took John’s breath away.

John hadn’t realised how long he had be staring until Sherlock’s eyes opened—bright and blue—filled with an intensity aimed directly at John.

John cleared his throat and abruptly stood. He turned to the sink to wash out the flannel, then grabbed his medical kit and laid it out on the ledge of the tub next to Sherlock. “You need stitches,” John announced.

Sherlock slipped his eyes closed and hummed out his acquiescence. John got to work, loosing himself in the rhythmic, methodical preparation of sterile utensils.

After the stitches were done and his med kit had been reassembled, John asked, “can you stand?”

Sherlock nodded once then stood, but much too quickly. John caught him just as he was about to pitch forward. “Steady,” John admonished, “not so fast.”

Sherlock’s head fell forward, returning to it’s earlier position, tucked safely into the small space between John’s shoulder and neck. He hummed happily, and John chuckled while rubbing Sherlock’s back. “Tired,” Sherlock’s baritone murmured into John’s skin.

“I know.” John continued the lazy circle of his hands on Sherlock’s bare skin, feeling the dips and divots of Sherlock’s scarred back under his fingertips.  Sherlock hadn't slept since they'd first arrived in Paris. “You can’t sleep soon, but I need to examine the rest of you.”

“I’mmmm fine,” Sherlock’s hot breath brushed against John’s neck.

“Sure you are.” John gave Sherlock a squeeze, kissed the side of his head (because why the hell not), and broke their embrace in order to steer him to the bed.

It was a large, opulent bed, far too big for one person. But Sherlock had insisted that John take it while he had set up camp out on the sitting room couch, amidst the stacks of files. There was no way in hell John was going to make Sherlock sleep on the sofa tonight.

John conducted a cursory inspection of Sherlock’s torso once Sherlock was seated on the side of the bed. A few bruises, but no broken ribs. Sherlock didn’t protest, instead he allowed John to inspect him, then crawled into the bed, making small noises of utter contentment as he nuzzled his face into the pillow. After awhile he settled, and soon he was sound asleep.

John stood beside the bed, hands on on his hips, and watched Sherlock fondly, as he sleep under the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

After awhile he clicked off the lamp near Sherlock’s head and was about to leave when a thin warm hand grabbed his arm.

“Don’t leave.” Sherlock’s voice sounded small, and pleading. Something twisted in John’s chest.

He leaned over Sherlock, kissed the top of his head and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock’s hand released him. John stripped down to his pants and crawled into the other side of the bed. He set the alarm on his phone to wake them up in a couple of hours so he could check on Sherlock. He doubted Sherlock’s concussion was that bad, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

No sooner had he plugged in his phone and clicked off the lamp then he felt Sherlock’s face nuzzle against his arm.

John stared up at the ceiling in the dark, his heart thudding in his chest. His muscles ached from the fight, but he could barely feel them. His entire awareness was honed on Sherlock’s soft, warmth breath fanning out over his skin. It sent a shot of heat into his stomach, made his heart thud faster.

Even as he told himself it was just the concussion (Sherlock would never act this way normally), John found himself tentatively reaching out for Sherlock in the dark. His fingertips found the inner side of Sherlock’s arm. He managed a few stuttering strokes over Sherlock’s soft skin, while desperately trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.

It was too much, and not enough.

John was just about to retreat, to pull away and turn his back when Sherlock shifted closer, trapping John in his embrace. The lovingly murmured, “John,” Sherlock breathed into the scar tissue on his shoulder nearly destroyed him.


	3. The Flower Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A jolt ran through John. It was hard to tell whether Sherlock was joking or not. Surely he was joking, but something in the tone of his voice made John’s skin warm despite the cold outdoor air. He decided to clear his throat and look away. “Come on,” he turned and ducked back into the room, hoping Sherlock would follow.

Mycroft sat alone in the darkened stillness of his sitting room with nothing but the sound of Allegro Non Molto playing loudly through the speakers. The frantic rhythm of the orchestra’s strings mirrored his thoughts.

Normally Mycroft preferred to think in silence, but today was the breaking point, the tail at the end of a long string of bad days. He didn’t used to believe in bad days. A day was just a day, neither good nor bad—it was all a matter of perspective. But recent events had shattered most of his previous logic.

At least he still had his wits about him.

His sharp wits were the reason he was completely unsurprised when a figured walked through his front door, sauntered into his sitting room, and sat on the other end of his sofa.

“Hello darling.”

Mycroft was always delighted with himself when he managed not to outwardly cringe. Especially when it was incredibly difficult not to.

“James, to what do I owe the fine pleasure of your company?” He uncrossed his legs, then re-crossed them so that he was fully facing Moriarty.

James Moriarty smiled sweetly. “Do I need a reason?”

“You always have a reason,” Mycroft reminded him, just as sweetly.

“Oh Mycey you know me so well. How I’ve missed you.” His brown eyes flashed, reflecting crimson light from the glowing fireplace.

Mycroft sighed. “I’ve had a long day James. I’m not in the mood for games. Why are you here?”

Moriarty leaned toward him, plucked Mycroft’s glass of wine off of the polished mahogany coffee table, and took a long pull from it. He made a show of licking his lips afterwards. “Hmmm... I love a good vintage. 1996?”

“97’. We both loath repetition, so don’t make me ask you again.” Mycroft remained seated, although it took every ounce of his reserve not to tear his glass of two hundred quid wine out of Moriarty’s grasp.

“How are the boys?” James took another long sip of the wine while shooting Mycroft a knowing look from over the lip of his glass.

Mycroft fought against the instinct to roll his eyes. “I have no idea.”

It happened fast. One moment he was demurely sipping wine, and the next he was throwing the glass across the room. It shattered against the hearth, red liquid clung to the brick then slowly trickled down like blood. “Don’t lie to me!” It wasn’t a shout, but it might as well have been, given the intensity with which it was spoken.

Mycroft had grown used to James’ sudden outbursts long ago. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, simply sat, fingers steepled beneath his chin, waiting for the storm to pass.

When he was certain James wouldn’t overreact again, he finally conceded, “you know as much of their well being as I do.”

Moriarty considered this for a moment. “Yes, I do,” he smirked. "Running around Europe, trying to find me.” His left hand came to rest demurely upon his chest. “But I’m… here!” He feigned surprise. “Whoever sent them on such a wild goose chase?”

They both knew the answer to that question, but it was put upon Mycroft to answer it. “You did,” he replied with disinterest.

“Yes, I did.” Moriarty’s expression turned darkly feral, “with your help.”

He remained expressionless, but underneath his composed demeanour, Mycroft’s skin crawled.

“About that…” Mycroft brushed an invisible piece of lint from his trousers. “How long before you plan on clueing me in on the rest of your little game?”

A saccharine smile spread across Moriarty’s features. “All in due time, My Dear.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a stick of gum, and popped into his mouth. “I’d love to stay and chat.” He shrugged, gum smacking loudly in his mouth. “But I have things to do, people to kill.”

Mycroft straightened up in his seat. “How nice of you to stop by, destroy the last glass of my vintage wine, and leave. Do come again.”

“Mmmm….” he lowered a slow dark gaze upon Mycroft, “my pleasure.” He stood and headed for the door, then turned, as if forgetting something. “I almost forgot why I came.”

Mycroft sat motionless, still as ice.

“Don’t forget our deal Mycroft. Sherlock belongs to me.” He smiled sweetly then disappeared.

Alegro Non Molto continued to play, swelling into the increasing darkness. Mycroft didn’t move, he simply shifted his gaze to the pool of blood-coloured wine that had collected on the wooden floor.

 

***

 

John felt the emptiness before opening his eyes. Darkness greeted him as he fully awoke. He stretched his arm out and felt the warm dip in the mattress where Sherlock had once been.

He sat up blearily, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then threw the bedsheets from his legs and stood. “Sherlock?” he called into the echoing darkness.

Silence followed.

A spike of panic pulsed through John’s veins. He clicked the bedside light on and flinched at the brightness. There was no sign of Sherlock in the room. He grabbed his robe, threw it on and padded across the floor.

John opened the door into the sitting area, spilling light into the open space. There was no one in the sitting room either.

That’s when he felt it. A cool breeze blew across his skin. John followed the cold air to an open set of french doors that led out onto the balcony.

Out in the darkness, under a blanket of stars stood Sherlock, clad in his own grey silk robe. He was leaning over the terrace wall, a thin plume of smoke rising from the end of his cigarette.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” John admonished, “you’re still concussed.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, he simply held his cigarette out to John, as if he knew John would take it. As if they had smoked together a million times before. They never had. In fact John hadn’t smoked since his army days.

John stared at the cigarette for a heartbeat before taking it. He took a deep drag, then passed it back to Sherlock, their fingers brushing lightly in the exchange.

“What happened?” John asked after exhaling a trail of smoke into the midnight sky.

“You were there,” Sherlock flicked ash over the side of the balcony.

“Yes I was. I was the one who saved your sorry arse. So, what happened? I thought you were undefeated?” John teased.

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “I am. I let him win.”

“Right.” John reached for the cigarette after Sherlock had taken another drag.

Sherlock glared at him as he passed the cig to John. “We’re undercover John. I’m playing their game, not mine. I had to loose at least once. Earn their sympathy, catch them off their guard. Now they won’t think I’ll be able to win the next match. They’ll be all the more surprised when I do.” He grinned like a cheshire cat.

John laughed. “Git.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You made me think you were actually in danger. I was worried about you.”

“You’re always worried about me,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John laughed again. “True.” He looked out over the brightly lit city below and shook his head. “When did I turn into your bloody brother?”

Sherlock grimaced. “You’re not my brother.”

John inhaled a lungful of smoke then exhaled it smoothly. “God, I hope not.”

Sherlock turned and leaned back against the cement terrace, eyes focused on John. “He would never get his hands dirty.” His gaze fell on John’s bruised knuckles. “You should ice that.”

John glanced at his knuckles briefly. “Later.” It wasn’t bad, it didn’t even hurt. “How’s your head feeling?

“Bruised.” Sherlock answered simply.

John laughed at Sherlock’s response. He took one last indulgent drag of smoke, then offered the cigarette back to Sherlock.

Sherlock pushed off from the balcony and reached for the fag. His thumb purposefully brushed across John’s bruised knuckles tenderly. John’s breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with the sensitivity of his bruised skin.

Sherlock’s piercing eyes never left John’s, even after he had taken the cigarette back, and placed it in his mouth. He took one last drag then flicked the cigarette butt over the side of the terrace.

John nodded towards their room. “You need more rest.”

“I can’t sleep.” Sherlock grumbled.

John lowered a stern gaze upon him. “Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll only toss and turn and keep you awake.”

“Then I’ll tie you to the bed.” John threatened jokingly.

“Promise?” Sherlock responded.

A jolt ran through John. It was hard to tell whether Sherlock was joking or not. Surely he was joking, but something in the tone of his voice made John’s skin warm despite the cold outdoor air. He decided to clear his throat and look away. “Come on,” he turned and ducked back into the room, hoping Sherlock would follow.

The sound of Sherlock closing the french doors echoed behind him as he made his way back to their bed.

 _His_ bed.

Christ he needed sleep. The stale taste of tobacco lingered in his mouth as he removed his robe, and climbed under the sheets.

A few moments later he felt the mattress dip next to him.

John laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling before turning over and flicking off the light.

He listened to Sherlock’s even breath in the dark. The space between them was a gigantic gulf compared to the closeness they had shared earlier.

John pretended not to mourn the distance.

 

***

 

The next time John woke it was to the sound of Sherlock’s muffled voice in the sitting room. Early morning light shone from the edges of the curtains as John lifted his weary body from the bed.

Christ, it had been ages since he'd fought like he had last night. The knuckles on his left hand throbbed. Sherlock was right, he should have iced them. With a groan he stood and headed to the bathroom.

After taking a piss he moved to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He caught his reflection in the mirror. Deeper lines, darker bags, and sunken cheeks stared back at him. He had lost weight and it showed. As if on cue, his stomach growled loudly. He cracked his neck and re-entered the bedroom to grab his robe.

Sherlock was pacing the sitting room like a caged tiger when John entered. He was on the phone, talking animatedly in French. John didn’t understand a word of it.

Time passed as he made himself a cup of coffee, and Sherlock continued to argue. By the time John sat down with the paper and a steaming mug, Sherlock had hung up and thrown his mobile onto the sofa with an angry growl.

“What was that about?” John asked casually, head stuck in the paper.

Sherlock took a seat opposite John, long legs sprawled out before him, head flung back and eyes closed. “We’re being transferred.”

The paper in his hands crumpled loudly as he hastily brought it down to level Sherlock with a look. “What? Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “His Majesty decrees it.”

“Wait, that was Mycroft? Why were you two speaking in french?”

“No, not Mycroft. One of his minions. Apparently our cover here has been blown. We need to move.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. It felt like they had just gotten there, and now they were moving? “Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry It was my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten involved last night.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair so that he was now looking at John. “No, you shouldn’t have. But you did.” He redirected his gaze to the balcony and the rather stunning view of Paris beyond. “Our flight leaves in three hours.”

“Where are we going?”

“Germany.”

 

***

 

Their hotel in Germany was a dump compared to what they had had in Paris. It was a small bedroom with a narrow queen sized bed that squeaked loudly when John sat on the edge. The heating vent was broken, despite the frigid weather, and the tap water was as cold as ice.

John laid back on the bed and stared at the cracked ceiling.

Sherlock tossed a manilla folder onto his stomach. Inside were documents, detailing his new alias. John scoffed. “Hamish Rolfing?” Sherlock didn’t respond. John continued to scan the documents. Hamish Rolfing was a bouncer at a nearby club. Lovely. “Who are you?” he asked Sherlock, who was currently standing at the window, gazing through the glass. John wasn’t sure what he was looking at, their only view was that of a brick wall a mere two feet away.

Sherlock tossed his own manilla folder at John, never taking his eyes off of the brick.

John’s stomach flipped the moment he opened the file and read its contents. “No.” He said darkly, eyes piercing Sherlock’s shadowed profile.

“We have no choice.” Sherlock’s voice broke no argument, but it sounded hollowed out.

“Sod this.” John stood and threw the offending file onto the musty blue comforter. He stalked over to Sherlock and put out his hand. “Give me your mobile.”  His own mobile had lost it's charge on the sodding cab ride to this rat hole.

Sherlock didn’t move.

“Sherlock.”

He finally turned and looked at John, eyes flashing. “No.”

John took a deep breath through his nose. “Give me your damn phone now.”

“And what? Threaten my brother to give me another alias? That won’t happen. Might as well save your breath.”

He was right. John knew he was right, but there was a volcano of anger threatening to escape from his boiling veins and he had to direct it at something. He picked up the nearest item, a television remote, and threw it at the wall. It did absolutely nothing to quell the tidal of emotions inside of him.

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice called him back. He turned and looked at him, breathing heavily despite what little effort it took to throw the sodding remote.

“I’ll be fine.”

John didn’t believe him. It’s not that he didn’t trust Sherlock, though that was certainly part of it, it had more to do with what John had read in that damn file. What Sherlock was being required to do was wrong. Very wrong.

“No Sherlock. I will not let you do this.”

Anger flashed across Sherlock’s features. “Let me?” he spat out.

“That’s right. I will not let you do this.”

Sherlock stepped forward, his face a few centimetres from John’s. “You think you can stop me?” His voice was low and threatening.

John’s clenched his fists. “I can. And I will.”

They stared each other down for a few heated moments. Then Sherlock started to laugh. It was a dark and deadly laugh. “You really can’t. There’s nothing either of us can do. If I don’t do this we’ll loose. And loosing means your wife and child dying. It means Moriarty wins. It means us spending the rest of our lives trying to destroy him and failing. So no, you can’t and you won’t, do anything.”

Sherlock tried to storm past him, but John grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “There has to be another way.”

Sherlock shook his head at John, defeat and determination etched upon his features. “There isn’t.” He shook John off, stalked past him into the loo and shut the door with a slam.

John looked down at the stained carpet and tried to steady himself.

Fuck.

He moved to the bed and picked up Sherlock’s file. He couldn’t stop staring at the top line. It was all he could focus on, everything else was tinged red.

**Alias: Vernet Alvan**

**Occupation: Male Prostitute**


	4. Pascha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The low beat of music could be heard pulsing through the darkened streets as they drew nearer, thudding through John’s skull. One glance at Sherlock, in his tight black jeans and John found himself grabbing his arm and shoving him into a shadowed alcove.
> 
> “Don’t do this,” he spoke softly into the enclosed space between them.

Chapter 4: Pascha

“Ready?” Sherlock walked out of the loo in arse-tight jeans, a black vest and boots.

He looked sinful. It made John’s stomach twist.

It had been a week since they had first arrived in Cologne, and Sherlock’s bruised face had nearly healed. All that remained was a small line of stitches above his left eyebrow. So far they had done nothing in the last week but wait, wait for Mycroft’s undercover security to take their places, so that everything was ready for their arrival at the nightclub.

Meanwhile John had sat and stewed. Praying silently, every time Sherlock’s mobile rang, that they would be miraculously relocated. They never were. Instead he was trapped in the hotel, watching Sherlock pace, study files and shout endlessly on the phone at various people in different languages. John tried to get him to sleep at night, but he had mostly refused. When he did sleep it was in short increments during the day when John had nothing better to do than watch the telly in a language he didn’t understand.

It had been a hell of a week.

John stood and followed Sherlock out of the hotel, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his thick jacket. The January air was bitterly cold. He eyed Sherlock’s arms for signs of goose pimples but didn’t see any. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“It’ll be warm in the club.”

John clenched his jaw and continued to silently follow Sherlock through the winding streets.

Cologne, Germany was a gorgeous city. John wished they were there for other reasons. The outskirts, however, were not as pleasant as the city’s center. Their hotel was located on the outskirts, only a few short blocks away from their intended destination: Pascha. He had taken time to google Pascha while they had been trapped in their hotel room, and found himself both shocked and angered by his discovery. It wasn’t only a nightclub, it was a brothel.

Cologne had opted to abolish their red light district in exchange for what looked like a high rise business building. One of the floors contained a nightclub, but other floors contained rooms where prostitutes stood outside of doors and sold themselves for sex. There was even an entire floor dedicated to male prostitutes.

John’s pulse spiked as they turned the corner and first laid eyes on the club. It was larger than it had looked online, lit up at night with multi-coloured lights, like some sort of Vegas hotel. Out on the street stood various women with barely a stitch of clothing on, giggling and talking to a long line of men waiting to enter.

The low beat of music could be heard pulsing through the darkened streets as they drew nearer, thudding through John’s skull. One glance at Sherlock, in his tight black jeans and John found himself grabbing his bare arm and shoving him into a shadowed alcove.

“Don’t do this,” he spoke softly into the enclosed space between them.

Sherlock’s warm breath fanned over John’s face. “I know you think I can’t do this—“

“It’s not—.”

“—because of my lack of experience.”

“I just— Wait… what?” John’s grip on Sherlock’s arm tightened. His pulse picked up.

Sherlock blinked down at him once. “You’re upset because I’m a virgin, and in your old-fashioned opinion, I shouldn’t be selling myself for sex. But I have to do this in order to meet Andrew Turner and obtain the information—“

John didn’t hear a word after ‘virgin.’ His mind was too busy reeling. He had always suspected Sherlock wasn’t interested in... That he had probably never engaged in— But then there was Irene, and Janine, and how could..? But they didn’t have time for questions. John had all the information he needed. He was going to drag Sherlock back to the hotel kicking and screaming. He’d knock him out if he needed to.

“John— John!”

John snapped back to reality and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “We’re. Leaving. Now.” Each word was punctuated, hard and unyielding.

Sherlock dug his heals into the ground, his face a mask of defiance. “No.”

They were not discussing this. There was nothing to discuss. There was no way in hell that Sherlock was going to go into that club and loose his virginity over and over again to sweat stained, drunk as balls, sex hungry man handlers. No. Just, no.

“John,” Sherlock growled. “Think of your wife. Your child.”

He hesitated a fraction of a second. He could care less about his lying, murdering wife, she didn’t deserve any sacrifice of theirs. But his child… his child was different. He had thought about it a lot over the past few days, and he had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t live with himself if he allowed his daughter to die.

The next words he spoke sounded desperate, even to his own ears. “There has to be another way.”

Sherlock took John’s face firmly between both of his ice cold hands. “John,” was all he said.

John tried to shake his head, but Sherlock’s grip was too tight. He silently cursed the prick of moisture that began to gather at the corner of his eyes. “Please Sherlock, don’t do this. Not for me. Not even for my daughter.”

They stood there for awhile, staring into each other’s eyes. Words rose up between them, but fell to the ground unspoken. Then Sherlock began to lean in, and for an earth shattering moment John thought he might kiss him. Instead, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s and whispered fiercely, “there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

The declaration knocked the breath from his lungs. Before he could react, Sherlock had released him and was stalking down the street at a frighteningly fast pace.

 

_______________

 

John was surrounded by alcohol and half-naked women. Nearly every man’s dream, and yet his mind was obsessively thinking of what could possibly be happening only a few floors above him.

It had been over an hour since they had parted ways. A large man named Asof had let them into the club, explaining their assigned jobs while directing them to their locations. John stayed on the bottom floor of the nightclub while Sherlock slipped into a lift, heading up to the fourth floor. It took every fibre of John’s being not to follow him. Even now he was battling the urge.

The music and flashing lights pulsed around him, like a living organism. The club was packed full to the brim with warm, sweating bodies. Men continued to pour into the club, some stopped by the bar for a dose of liquid courage, while others headed straight to the lifts. John’s jaw was clenched so tightly, he had a headache.

His job was to walk around the bar area and make sure none of the men got too drunk, that the women were treated properly. It was clear that the majority of customers were returning visitors, fully aware of the rules and regulations. John was mostly there for show, the word ‘SECURITY’ etched, in German, across his back in large block letters. Asof didn’t seem to mind that John couldn’t speak a word of German, as he handed him the jacket. Sherlock hadn’t explained it, but John assumed Asof was one of Mycroft’s contacts.

A warm hand landed on his forearm accompanied by a deep female voice, the words husky and clearly foreign. John tried to smile as he turned and looked at the blonde woman beside him. Her lips were painted blood red, teeth white but slightly crooked as she smiled back at him in an aggressively flirtatious manner. John’s gaze couldn’t help but drop down to her large exposed breasts.

“I don’t speak German,” he explained while subtly shifting away. There was something about her that reminded him of Mary.

“You’re new here,” her thick accent purred.

“Yes,” he placed his hand over hers, firmly prying her thick manicured fingers from his arm. He didn’t want her touching him.

She was no longer gripping his arm, but she remained glued to his side, curved hip digging into his. “You look stressed. Come to my room when it’s your break. I can pleasure you, no?” Her red lips parted to reveal a vivacious grin. His stomach churned.

“Thanks, but I’m meeting someone else,” he lied.

Her face fell into a sneer. She sniffed, flicked her blonde hair and walked away, arse bouncing with every high heeled step.

His gaze returned to the swarming crowd. Moisture gathered along his brow, Christ it felt like he was stuck in a bloody furnace.

Time passed in slow motion. He watched the dance floor with detached interest as exposed bodies writhed to pounding music. Every time he glanced at his watch the second hand had only managed to creep a small increment further. He breathed in and out evenly. Men came and went. By the time his break rolled around his body was thrumming.

Without a second thought, he turned on his heel and headed straight for the lift.

 

_______________

 

Sherlock stepped into the empty room, allowing the door to click shut behind him.

Everything was red, or some variant shade of it. The walls were painted burgundy, the carpet was garishly scarlet and the bedding was faded to rust, once vibrant but dulled from multiple washings.

Red. It was intended to incite desire, hunger, passion. Sherlock’s stomach clenched.

The only piece of furniture in the room was an overly large bed, situated against the far wall facing the door. The centerpiece of the room. It stared back at him, knowingly.

It was the ugliest room Sherlock had ever seen, and that was saying a lot, he'd seen many ugly room in his time. It even smelled awful. An overwhelming mixture of toxic carpet cleaner, pungent air freshener and stale tobacco.

Various sounds emerged from the adjoining rooms. Moaning, grunting, deep guttural cries of pleasure.

He stepped away from the door and walked further in. Everything about the room made him uncomfortable, even the air itself. It felt thick with heat. Cloyingly humid. 

His eyes quickly scanned the room for an air vent, landing on a grid in the ceiling meters above his head, but the vent stood still and silent. No air emitted.

Next door, the muffled sounds of sex continued to grow louder.

He made his way to a pair of thick velvet drapes, only to find the window beyond was sealed shut. He leaned forward, resting his fevered forehead against the cold glass.

The distant sound of box springs squeaking incessantly filled his ears, like fingernails down a chalkboard. His insides coiled tighter. The barrage of external stimuli surrounding him was nearly overwhelming. Red walls, no air, the strong scent of cleaning products.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ wailed through the walls.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself. The press of his warm brow against the chilled window felt like blessed relief.

Once he was fully composed, he straightened his spine, closed the drapes, and turned away from the window. His eyes immediately landed on the rust coloured comforter in front of him. For a moment he was transfixed by the pattern of stains any casual observer would fail to notice. His mind filling with a barrage of information he desperately didn't want to analyze. After several long seconds he snapped his attention away from the bed and moved across the room.

Bang. Bang. Bang. The sound of a headboard hitting the adjoining wall echoed repetitively throughout the room.

He found himself standing in front of a floor length mirror on the opposite wall. The figure standing before him was clad in tight black clothing, pale skin dewy with sweat and tinted orange in the glowing light of the wall sconces. He looked the part of a prostitute, he thought.

 _All the world is a stage_.

His eyes never left his reflection as he lifted his hand to his neck. Just the barest touch of fingertips to skin. How would it feel, he wondered, as he allowed his fingers to drift…. How would it feel to let someone else touch him? Fingertips trailed featherlike down his neck, dipping over his exposed collarbone. When he reached the fabric of his vest he flattened his hand and dragged it down until it was resting over the flat plane of his abdomen. He could feel his insides churning beneath his palm.

He shifted his shoulders back and lifted his chin, ordering his insides to calm. This was his assignment, his body was merely transport. None of the base human rituals he was about to partake in mattered in the grand scheme of things. All that mattered was destroying Moriarty. All that mattered was…

 _John_.

“Into battle,” he ordered his expressionless reflection. Ignoring the pounding in his chest, he turned sharply and opened the door, ready to greet his first customer.

 

_______________

 

John pressed the number ‘four’, then waited as several other men entered the lift after him. The doors closed, enveloping them in the thick scent of tobacco, alcohol and body odour. John shifted, fingers drumming uncontrollably as they stopped on the second floor and waited for two men to exit.

He knew it was madness to try and find Sherlock. It had been three hours since John had last seen him. Three painfully long hours. Sherlock was gorgeous and mysterious and… Well, the chances of John finding him alone were nearly non-existent. He breathed in deeply despite the thick musky air in the elevator.

The lift reached the fourth floor, and John had to shoulder his way past two large blokes in order to exit. They laughed and mumbled something in German as he made his way past them, no doubt commenting on the sexual orientation of the floor he was entering.

It took several moments, as the lift doors closed behind him, for his eyes to adjust to his new surroundings. The hallway was dimly lit with golden glowing sconces lining burgundy-coloured walls. Figures stood on each side of the hall, shadowed but lit well enough that John could clearly tell that they were all male. Some were dressed in women’s clothing and others were not, all of them eyed John hungrily.

He took another deep breath and started forward in search of Sherlock.

Some of the figures lining the narrow hallway eyed him coyly, others were unrepentant in their desires. Many of them had their cocks out, displaying their ‘goods’. John kept his eyes forward as much as possible, but he was forced to scan his surroundings minimally as he searched the strange faces for a certain pale figure with ebony curls.

The hallway seemed unending, till at last he reached a fork in the road. He looked to the left then to the right. Instinct told him to turn left as he continued forward.

Many of the doors down this hallway were closed, no one standing before them, but he could hear sounds emanating from behind them. Base, animalistic sounds. Grunts, and moaning and shouting. The walls were thin, and John felt a wave of dizziness threaten to pitch him sideways.

When he reached the end of the hall with no sign of Sherlock, he turned and approached a tall figure clad in black leather and high heels. “Excuse me,” his voice managed not to crack, “do you speak English?”

The man arched a well manicured brow at him, “everyone here speaks English. What can I do for you my lovely?” His eyes scanned John up and down.

“I’m looking for someone in particular. This is his first night here. He’s fairly tall, thin, dark curly hair, blue eyes.”

The man smirked knowingly. “Ah yes. I know who you speak of. That’s his room down there,” he pointed to a room several doors down and to the left. “He’s been quite popular. Newcomers always are, but he is particularly delicious. I wouldn’t mind a taste of him myself.”

John’s heart pounded against his rib cage with violent force. He didn’t even acknowledge the prostitute he’d been talking to with so much as a ‘thanks’ as he walked away. His attention was focused solely on Sherlock’s door and nothing else.

As if from miles away he heard the prostitute’s voice behind him say, “you’ll have to wait in line sweetie, he’s seeing to someone right now. I could keep you company till then.”

His fist pounded on the door.

He could feel the sudden gaze of every eye in the hallway upon him. Nothing but silence followed.

He pounded on the door again, his mind digging around desperately for Sherlock’s alias. “Vernet!” he finally remembered.

“You can’t do that!” the man next door grabbed for him. John threw the faceless figure aside.

He grabbed the door handle and twisted. It was locked. John pounded on the door again. “Vernet! Let me in.”

“Call security,” he heard a voice say.

“I am security!” he barked back, fist still pounding on Sherlock’s door.

He had to get in. It had been three hours since he had last seen Sherlock. Three hours… His vision started to swim. The smell of sweat and sex was suffocating. His pulse was pounding in his ears, perspiration rolling down the back of his neck. His fist kept pounding against solid wood as voices started to circle him, telling him to stop, ordering him to be quiet, threatening to call the head of security.

He pounded harder, the skin on his knuckles threatening to split. He was about to kick the door down when the lock clicked and Sherlock suddenly appeared before him. John scanned him. His hair was mussed, his lips swollen and red, clad only in a pair of black briefs, love bites littering his pale neck and chest.

John lurched forward, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder and pushing him aside. “Excuse me?” Sherlock admonished, but John could barely hear him over the thudding tide of adrenaline running through his veins.

Sherlock’s customer sat on the edge of the bed, completely naked, fully erect, condom—thankfully—on. The man looked shocked, then angry, then confused as John stalked towards him. “Ow!” he cried out when John grabbed his arm, fingers digging into his flesh. “I paid!” he protested.

John yanked him up and out of the dimply lit room.

The man cursed him in German, “I will speak to the manager about this! I paid! I paid!”

John tossed him out into the hall then slammed the door shut and locked it.

Sherlock stood next to John, eyes flashing like blue flames. “What the hell was that?!”

The room wasn’t swaying as much now, but the rush of blood in his head still made it hard to concentrate. He stood facing the closed door, breathing shallowly. The steady pounding of his heart slowing only fractionally.

Sherlock walked up to John, face dangerously close, “answer me!” he ordered.

The next thing John knew, he was pressing Sherlock up against the wall, both hands on his bare chest. They stood there for an eternity, breathing heavily.

Reality came back to John slowly. The fact that Sherlock was mostly naked, smelling of sex, covered in angry love bites, heart fluttering madly beneath John’s hands.

John looked him over with a doctor’s measured gaze, cataloguing all the ways he had been touched by another. He wasn’t as talented as Sherlock at deducing, he couldn’t see everything the way Sherlock could, and for the first time he was glad he couldn’t. Everything he could see—the swollen lips, the mussed hair—was more than enough. In fact it was too much. John could feel something clawing it’s way from the deepest caverns of his chest, up into his throat. For a second he thought he might be sick, or worse, that he might sob.

The entire time Sherlock kept looking at him, no longer angry, but probing. As if John was the most complicated puzzle he had ever encountered.

John finally looked up into Sherlock’s fathomless eyes, and was lost. It was as if he were fighting against the very nature of gravity itself. His eyes flickered briefly to Sherlock’s swollen lips, then back up to his eyes. He couldn’t deny the overwhelming urge he had at that moment to claim Sherlock as his. The base desire rolling through his veins to sink his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, to run his hands over every inch of his pale skin, to throw him down onto the mattress and fuck him hard and deep.

As though he’d been severely burned, John let go of Sherlock and stepped back.

He could never do that. He could never just fuck Sherlock and walk away. He loved him too much. He could admit that to himself even if he would never be able to speak it aloud.

Besides, Sherlock wasn’t like that. Didn’t want what John wanted.

John’s racing thoughts were interrupted by pounding. Someone was at the door.

“Head of Security. Open this door!”

Sherlock grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. John remained motionless. “Answer the door John,” Sherlock ordered. John didn’t move.

The pounding continued.

Sherlock huffed, then headed for the door. John grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Let go of me,” Sherlock ordered.

“No,” he growled.

Sherlock tried to pull away, “we need to explain ourselves so I can continue my job and you can continue yours.”

John caught a glimpse of the rubbish bin, a used condom hanging over the rim. Anger burst inside of his chest like an atom bomb. “Like hell!”

Sherlock pushed John away. “You will not ruin this again John. We cannot afford for you to blow every one of our covers because of your possessive streak.”

“What?” John could feel his blood pressure rising dangerously high.

“I don’t belong to you,” Sherlock whispered fiercely.

John blanched.

The door continued to pound as the security guard yelled, “let me in or I’ll break the door down!”

Sherlock made for the door again, but John wouldn’t let go. “We are leaving. Now.”

Sherlock grabbed his own hair, nearly pulling it out in frustration. Then he glared down at John and practically screamed, “move!”

“No.” John pushed back. “Not until you agree to leave with me. Or I swear to God I will drag your arse out of here myself.”

Sherlock released a mangled cry, then shoved John into the pounding door. “Let me do my job!”

John laughed mirthlessly, “you call this a job? Since when does the great Sherlock Holmes consider fucking men in a brothel, a job?”

“Since your life depended on it! I’ve never had sex before, but don’t delude yourself into thinking I haven’t provided a perfunctory blow job or two in exchange for important information during the two years I was gone. While you were at home fucking Mary, I was busy running around saving your life!”

John reeled back, as if he’d just been slapped.

“Open this door now! I’m about to break it down,” the security guard ordered.

They stood staring at each other for an eternity, while the sound of banging echoed loudly all around them. Finally, John let out a breath. He placed his hands on his hips, looked down at the floor and murmured, “fine.” When he was ready, he glanced back up at Sherlock, then turned and opened the door.

The head of security was in every sense of the word, large. He loomed over John as he spoke, red faced and sweaty, “can you tell me why you threw a paying costumer out of this room?”

John scrambled for an answer but couldn’t think of anything. Sherlock was suddenly standing beside him in the doorway, “Mr. Rolfing had been misinformed. He thought my customer had a knife and meant to hurt me. He was only doing his job.”

“And why didn’t you answer this door the moment I asked you to?” he demanded.

“He was busy searching for a weapon, of course he didn’t find anything,” Sherlock explained smoothly.

The head of security’s murderous expression remained unchanged. “This is not your area of security Mr. Rolfing. You were assigned to the nightclub.”

“Yes, sir.” John responded mechanically.

“Get out of there,” the large officer ordered.

John chanced a look at Sherlock. He didn’t want to leave. Sherlock’s gaze communicated, ‘do as you're told’ as John was forcibly ushered out of his room.

In the hallway, there was a crowd staring at him, including the customer John had thrown out of Sherlock’s room. He was wearing a robe now, but clearly eager to get back to his ‘activities’ with Sherlock—until he eyed John. The robed man sneered at John wickedly, as he walked past him and into Sherlock’s room. John dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, desperately needing something else to focus on.

The head of security grabbed John’s shoulder and pushed him down the hall. John managed to turn and look at Sherlock one last time. This time he wasn’t above pleading, ‘please don’t’ he begged wordlessly, as Sherlock’s steel blue eyes followed him down the hall. Then Sherlock turned and closed the door.

John’s heart plummeted.


	5. Turner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shifted closer to Sherlock, closing the gap between their bodies, his entire frame now cradling him. The ache in Sherlock’s abdomen erupted into a spreading warmth. The palm of John’s hand snuck under his arm and landed on his chest, just over his pounding heart.

Chapter 5: Turner

The moment John finished his shift at the nightclub he slipped through the back door and pulled out his mobile.

The phone rang three times then picked up. “Hello John,” Mycroft’s smooth voiced carried over the line.

“Mycroft,” John responded. The early morning air was frigid. John zipped up his jacket and scanned the thin alleyway for any signs of life.

“How can I be of service?”

Once John was satisfied that the alley was empty, he shoved his unoccupied hand into his pocket for warmth and stared forward at a particularly uninteresting crack in the wall. “You need to relocate us.”

Silence followed, then a long drawn out sigh. “Impossible.”

John looked up at the sky far above him, it was tinged with the pale silvery blue of early dawn. It reminded him of the color of Sherlock’s eyes. “No Mycroft, nothing is impossible, especially for you. Relocate us. Now.”

“Why?”

He shifted the mobile in his hand, raking his gaze down the alley once again, left then right. There was still no one around. “Because,” he whispered, “your little brother is currently selling his body in order to get in contact with an informant.”

“I am aware of this,” Mycroft responded breezily. There was a reason Moriarty had coined the title The Ice Man in reference to Mycroft.

“I know you care as much as I do, don’t sit there and pretend this doesn’t matter. Pull the stick out of your arse and relocate us now.”

“I’m afraid you are wrong Doctor Watson, I don’t care as much as you do. And I will not relocate you no matter how many colorful ways you order me to do so.”

John pulled his free hand out of his pocket and ran it over his face. God, he wished it was possible to strangle someone over the phone. He sniffed once then decided to drop the bomb, “I’ll tell him.”

There was a pause on the other line. “No you won’t.”

“Yes I will, I’ll tell him about Mary unless you agree to relocate us.”

Mycroft sighed again, as if he were talking to a petulant child. “Don’t pretend to threaten me John. You know it doesn’t benefit anyone if you share the information we have on Mary with Sherlock. Tell him if you want. Either way you are not being relocated until your job there is finished. Don’t call me again, unless it’s actually important.”

The line went dead. John cursed him, then nearly threw his mobile into a ditch.

Fucking Mycroft Holmes.

 

_______________

 

Sherlock brushed his teeth, head down, left hand clasping the edge of the sink, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He spat, rinsed his mouth, and breathed.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He looked at his toothbrush still gripped tightly in his hand. He applied more tooth paste then brushed his teeth again.

His gums were sore and bleeding by the time he finished. He watched with detached fascination as the blue blood foam swirled down the drain. Then he set his toothbrush down next to John’s and flicked off the bathroom light.

When he entered the room, John was lying on his side of the bed, curled up like a ball. Sherlock could tell by the depth and irregularity of his breathing that he was still awake even though his eyes were closed.

Sherlock walked around to the opposite side of the mattress and sat on the edge. The springs groaned loudly under his weight. He sat there for awhile, head in his hands, staring vacantly at the horrid carpet laying beneath his bare feet.

It had been a long night. Possibly the longest night of his life, and that was saying a lot. After all, he had spent an entire night in Serbia chained to a wall, blood running down his back and rats nibbling at his toes. The last eight hours should have been a walk in the park in comparison. But it wasn’t.

He had told John the truth, he had given a couple of blow jobs in exchange for information during his two years away from John. That was it, the culmination of his sexual experience. It had never counted as sex in his mind, because he had never enjoyed any of it. He’d never been aroused at all. They had merely been business transactions. Perfunctory in every way.

Last night was no exception. He’d made sure to only offer oral sex to his customers. He was incapable, he knew, of getting it up for any of them. He couldn’t let a stranger penetrate him either, the chance of injury was too great. Luckily he had, as Sebastian had affectionately termed it in uni, a fuckable mouth. In fact Sebastian had said that it was all his smart mouth was good for: fucking.

The one thing that had differed from his two previous experiences, had been how handsy some of his customers had gotten. One man in particular had been a little too enthusiastic with his mouth, as evidenced by the smattering of love bites currently littering his torso. Sherlock had managed to feign enjoyment, before his very obvious lack of interest became overtly plain.  Still, he'd hated having to endure any sort of physical affection from strangers.  It had taken every ounce of his will-power not to shove them away.

Yes, the night had been long, and now his jaw ached horribly, and he couldn’t get the awful taste of latex off of his tongue. He wasn’t sure of how many more of these nights he could take.

With a sigh he stretched his spine, crawled under the blankets and curled onto the far side of the bed, facing away from John.

John was still angry with him. When they'd left Pascha, he'd acknowledged Sherlock only long enough to insist he wear John’s jacket before stepping outside. Ever the caretaker. Sherlock had eyed John wearily as they stalked silently through the streets in the early morning light. He'd watched John’s fist clench open and shut, his jaw set in a hard line, eyes forward and unmoving. They hadn't spoken a word to one another the entire walk back to the motel.

Now, Sherlock laid silent and still, trying to give John as much space as possible on the narrow bed. Time slipped by slowly. He was just beginning to drift off when he felt the mattress shift behind him.

John’s hand rested tentatively on Sherlock’s bicep. The warmth of his small palm spread across Sherlock’s skin like wildfire.

He longed to scoot back into the full comfort of John’s touch... There it was. The familiar ache in Sherlock’s abdomen. It was the same dull ache that always seemed to appear whenever Sherlock desired more from John. It had become an all too common occurrence over the past year, ever since Sherlock had returned from the dead.

He ignored the ache, as he had a thousand times before, and instead concentrated on giving himself over to sleep.

Moments later John’s voice rose up softly from the darkness. “Tell me no one hurt you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared across at the dark blue drapes that were currently attempting to smother the daylight. “No one hurt me,” his voiced cracked.

John shifted closer to Sherlock, closing the gap between their bodies, his entire frame now cradling Sherlock in his enveloping warmth. The ache in Sherlock’s abdomen erupted into an uncontrolled inferno. The palm of John’s hand snuck under his arm and landed on his chest, just over his pounding heart.  

Sherlock nearly sobbed.

How could John not know? Sherlock’s pulse was as loud as a war drum in his head, surely John could hear it? Feel it?

“I don’t like it.  I don't like them... touching you,” John’s warm breath fanned out over his neck.

Sherlock shivered. “I know.” He breathed into lungs that felt too tight, then steeled himself and placed his own hand over the one John had placed upon his chest. “I don’t like it either,” he offered.

Time passed. Sherlock began to think that John had fallen asleep, but then he felt the wetness of John’s lips press against the nape of his neck.

The ache became excruciating.  His skin felt like it was on fire, and his heart felt as if it were pumping liters of molten lava through his veins. He wanted… oh how he wanted. He had never wanted anything before like he wanted John. Not even the drugs.

John’s grip around his body tightened, as his mouth started to lave at his neck, sucking and scraping.

Sherlock’s head swam. He was paralyzed, as his mind and body warred with one another. He couldn’t decide whether to turn around or run away. John’s leg shifted between his own and that’s when he felt a hardness press against his tailbone. John wanted him, and oh God how he wanted to turn around and let John take as much of him as he wanted.

And yet—Sherlock’s logical mind reasoned—John was only acting out of a desire to keep Sherlock safe. He was possessive of Sherlock because of the events that had occurred the night before.

There was no denying the hardness of John’s prick digging into his back, John wanted him, but how much of Sherlock did John actually want? Did he even want Sherlock’s heart? Or was he just trying to protect it?

Sherlock didn’t know the answer, but he did know that John was married. Whatever part of John, that currently wanted him at that moment, was still only a part, and Sherlock couldn’t ever have just a single part of John Hamish Watson. Sherlock wanted all of him, and he wanted John to want all of him in return.

Right now he had neither.

His body desperately tried to convince his mind that he could still have this. Just this moment. Just a little longer. But the longer he allowed John to kiss his skin, and press him close, the more his heart ripped and tore at the knowledge that this wasn't his to have. The harder it would be for him in the near future, when John would inevitably wake up and realize the horror of what he'd done.

“John,” Sherlock managed to tear the words from his gasping lungs, “don’t.”

John froze. Everything stopped. Sherlock’s heart stuttered, then stopped at the feel of John’s retreat.

Every cell in his body sang out in mourning at the loss of John’s touch. He clenched his eyes shut and tried not to cry as John moved back to the other side of the mattress.

“Sorry,” John whispered softly into the newly formed void between their bodies.

Sherlock convinced himself that he couldn’t hear the sadness in John’s voice.

 

______________

 

John awoke with a terrible headache. The kind of headache that happened when you stayed up all night and then woke up at two in the afternoon. He crawled out of bed and headed to the loo. After gulping down several gallons of water from the tap, he stumbled back to bed, intending to sleep for another year.

That’s when his eyes landed on Sherlock, sprawled out on the mattress in the shuttered afternoon light. He was wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants, sheets tangled at his feet, hair splayed across his pillow like an ebony halo. John smiled softly down at the sleeping figure. It was incredibly rare for him to see Sherlock like this, especially since he no longer lived at Baker Street. John couldn’t tear his eyes away. God, he looked gorgeous and… John had come onto him last night.

Shit.

He suddenly needed air. He pulled on his trousers, shirt and jacket, then stepped out the door into the dingy hotel hall.

Moments later he was tromping down the grey graffitied streets in search of alcohol.

What had he been thinking? He’d been thinking of Sherlock—selling himself for sex. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the night before. It had consumed his mind until he found himself mouthing at Sherlock’s neck, hard as a rock, and desperate to claim him. A primal need buried deep inside of him, ready to claw it’s way out. But Sherlock had been right, he didn’t belong to John. Never had. Never would…

And why did John even have this primal desire in the first place? Why did he feel the need to claim Sherlock? Why couldn’t he stand the thought of any other person on the planet touching him in an intimate way?

John couldn’t even begin to answer those questions without at least a pint of alcohol in his bloodstream. It was two in the afternoon, there had to be a pub, or a bar, or a shop that sold alcohol open somewhere.

Moments later, he found himself seated at Pascha’s bar, a glass of scotch in hand. The golden liquid swirled around, once, then twice before he swallowed it down in one smooth motion. The barman refilled his glass without a word.

John looked around the darkly lit club, surprised by how many men were there that early in the afternoon. Then again, he supposed there wasn’t a bad time of the day for alcohol or sex. A well manicured hand suddenly appeared on his thigh. The same manicured hand that belonged to the blonde prostitute from the night before. He groaned inwardly but tried to smile.

“Hello, Mr. Rolfing,” she murmured as her hand made it’s way up his inner thigh. He managed to grab it before it had a chance to make it’s full assent. “You are here early, no? Have you reconsidered my offer?” The moist heat of her breath tickled his ear.

He turned and looked at her. “No actually, I haven’t. Just came here for a bit of a drink, but I’m just about to leave,” then he downed the glass of scotch and stood.

“Your loss,” she sneered.

John didn’t even bother to look at her as he threw a few Euros onto the bar and turned to leave.

His attention was so focused on the exit that he almost missed the man seated at one of the dimly lit tables. John immediately recognized him. He had seen his face before, in one of the many files back in their hotel room. Andrew Turner, one of Moriarty’s informants.

Andrew Turner was dressed in an impeccable light grey suit, staring at his mobile intently while nursing what looked to be a gin and tonic. Turner was the entire reason John and Sherlock were in Cologne. The entire reason they were working at a Brothel. He was Sherlock’s contact, the one Sherlock was supposed to sell his body to in exchange for information on Moriarty.

John squared his shoulders and headed to Turner’s table.

“Excuse me,” John flashed his best grin, “mind if I join you?”

Andrew Turner looked up from the mobile in his hand. He was younger than John, with oddly beautiful hazel eyes and short brown hair. He smiled back. “By all means,” his rich baritone replied in an American accent.

John sat, sincerely hoping he didn’t look as disheveled as he felt. “You here alone?”

Turner slipped his mobile into his pocket and leaned back, eyeing John up and down. “Why yes, I am.”

This might actually be easier than John had initially thought it would be. Thank God for that, it had been years since he had openly flirted with a man, and even then he had been far more intoxicated than he was at that moment. “Good,” John licked his lips then flashed another grin, “that’s good.”

Turner shifted his legs under the table so that his calf brushed against John’s. “I’m not much for flirting,” he intoned seriously, “I prefer to cut to the chase.”

John’s stomach clenched. Apparently this would be _much_ easier than he had thought.

“Your name?” Turner took a slow sip of his drink.

“Hamish.” John rubbed his leg purposefully against Turner’s.

“Hamish,” he smirked. “My name is Andrew. But you can call me Drew. Now,” he shifted forward in his chair, “would you like to get a room with me?”

John studied the hazel eyes that were currently piercing his. This was his chance, he could decline politely and leave, head back to his hotel room and to Sherlock…

 _Sherlock_.

“I’d love to.” Then he stood and followed Turner through the bar and to the lift.


	6. Human Emotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human emotions were fascinating. He didn’t understand them at all, so he studied them. It was one of the things that made him such an effective criminal. No, he couldn’t feel what humans felt, couldn’t even comprehend how they tolerated the messiness of it all, but he could dissect emotions, tear them apart and smash them between two slates of glass to magnify and dissect.

Moriarty sat in the empty darkened theatre, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his lap. He dug in, grabbing an unnecessarily large handful of kernels and shoving them into his mouth, and hummed indulgently.

It was wonderful having his own private theatre to watch movies. He loathed sitting along side the general public. They were a painful distraction, always coughing, or laughing, or talking. A mobile phone would go off and he’d have the urge to shove it down their throat. If someone kicked the back of his seat he’d be tempted to break their leg.

One time there was a little girl seated behind him who wouldn’t stop whispering along with the dialogue because she had already memorised the entire movie. He had turned around in his seat and there must have been something terrifying in his expression because she had screamed and run out of the theatre crying, her insipidly stupid mother following behind.

He couldn’t see a movie out in public without wanting to murder everyone in the building, and since he was fully capable of murder, he thought it was far more cost efficient for him to buy his own private theatre than pay to hide a theatre full of dead bodies.

God, he hated people.

Light from the screen flickered across his features, chocolate brown eyes sparkling in the reflection of the screen. He loved movies. He could still remember sneaking into his local theatre as a child. It had been small, run down and barely attended. It had possessed only one projector, and most times it would play old films instead of new ones.

He used to escape to that musty theatre at least once a week. Specifically, he’d try to attend on Thursday afternoons because that’s when the old man who ran the projector would put up black and white Laurel and Hardy films. He used to love them. It was the physical humour that fascinated him, how expressive humans could be with simple movements. He’d study them like a cat studying it’s prey. It was a fascinating.

Most movies were excellent studies in human behaviour, including the one he was currently watching. The plot of the movie centered around a married man who was having a secret affair. It should have been dull really, an age old story of lust and betrayal, but instead he found in captivating.

Human emotions were fascinating. He didn’t understand them at all, so he studied them. It was one of the things that made him such an effective criminal. No, he couldn’t feel what humans felt, couldn’t even comprehend how they tolerated the messiness of it all, but he could dissect emotions, tear them apart and smash them between two slates of glass to magnify and dissect. He had been studying humans like that since he’d been born, with detached efficiency, and he quite fancied himself an expert.

Ah yes, he thought, as the movie continued to play. Just as he predicted. The man is loading his gun now, he’s going to kill his lover. Typical. He smiled slowly, knowingly, triumphantly.

He reached into his bowl of popcorn and shoved another handful into his mouth, smiling all the while. If only, he thought with an air of amusement, he could bring popcorn with him to the viewing of life’s overtly real dramas.

 

_______________

 

 

One hour and forty three minutes.

It had been one hour and forty three—forty four minutes since John had left.

Sherlock paced the room, tore at his hair, looked at his phone, considered calling his brother then decided not to—over, and over, and over again. He stared at the door, willing it to open. It remained closed. Another minute slipped by.

He had awoken, alone in the room only sixty two minutes ago. Of course he had considered leaving the motel in search of John. That had been an hour ago, and like a fool he had talked himself out of it. Now it made more sense for him to remain at the hotel. John would undoubtedly return soon. He had to return.

John was most likely at a local bar, drinking. Drinking because he had awoken in bed with Sherlock and had realised what he had done the night before—how he had pressed his warm body against Sherlock’s back, and kissed his skin.

Involuntarily, he rubbed the back of his neck as he continued to pace the foot of the bed.

One hour and forty six minutes.

If they were in London, Sherlock would hardly be fussed by John’s absence. There was minimal danger in London, and even if John were kidnapped, Sherlock knew London better than he knew himself. He could easily find John, and save him.

This place—Sherlock kicked at the fallen comforter—this place was foreign to him.

A mangled cry left his lungs as he reached for his phone again. He hated having to call his insipid brother, but it had been an hour and forty eight minutes. John couldn’t possibly be drinking for that long unless… Before he could talk himself out of it, his thumb smashed the call button.

The phone rang and rang and rang—then went to voice mail. “You’ve reached Mycroft Holmes—“ Sherlock threw his phone across the room, faintly aware of it thudding dully against the wall.

One hour and fifty minutes.

Everything was closing in on him. The flaking paint on the walls, the musty smell, the sound of a child crying in the distance. He couldn’t stay there a moment longer, he had to get out. He thew some clothes on and flew out the door.

Sherlock stalked through the damp streets determinedly. It was a bitterly cold afternoon, overcast and threatening to either snow or rain. He swerved through a crowd of teenagers loitering near an alley. They swore at him but he ignored it, lost in his own thoughts.

The moment he stepped out the door he knew where he was headed. Of course it was obvious, if he hadn’t been so frantic earlier he could have deduced it without wasting time. Now he found himself speeding towards Pascha at a brisk pace. John wanted a drink, John wasn’t familiar with the area, so of course he would head to the familiar setting of Pascha’s bar. It was stupid, _stupid_ of him not to have realised it immediately.

He wound his way through the streets, feet pounding the pavement, heart pounding in his ears. They had discussed this numerous times as their boarded their first plane in London. It was too dangerous for either of them to leave the other and go wandering about. Moriarty’s henchmen could be anywhere, ready to strike. 

Sherlock knew John’s incessant need ‘for air’ and therefore had lectured him, repeatedly, on how imperative it was for him to stay put during their missions. Of course Pascha was usually covered by several of Mycroft’s men, but that was only during their allotted working times, there wouldn’t be a single member of Mycroft’s security there now. He glanced at his watch, two hours and twelve minutes. His skin crawled at the thought of John in danger.

Pascha finally came into view as he rounded the last street corner. It looked colder and less inviting in the harsh light of day. More like a prison and less like a Vegas strip club. His approach felt like a slow motion reel, the last few steps an eternity passing, as he stepped through the door and into the dark warmth of the bottom-floor bar.

His sharp eyes scanned the room once, then twice. A spike of adrenaline shot through his veins as he scanned the area a third and final time. There was no sign of John.

A brief moment of panic seized him. Could he have been wrong about John coming here? He scanned his mind palace for any other alternative, but couldn’t find any. This was it, the only logical place for John to have gone.

Out of the corner of his eye a flash of platinum blonde hair skirted past him. He lurched forward and grabbed her arm. She turned on him immediately, anger and indignity filling her features. “I’m looking for someone,” he demanded before she could signal security.

She didn't call for security, but her eyes flickered down to where his hand gripped her arm tightly as if to say: hands off or I’ll twist off your balls. He dropped his hand and donned the role of desperation. If he appeared needy, she may not feel as threatened. “Please, help me. I’m looking for a man, he’s shorter than me, blond grey hair, military build, middle aged. He’s a security guard here.” He was sure to flash her his best ‘puppy dog eyes’.

Red lips twisted into a saucy sneer. “Ah yes. I know who you speak of,” she practically purred. “He keeps turning me down.” She pouted, and Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted to grab her, and shake her, and demand she tell him where John was immediately. She shifted her stance and eyed him wearily. “But perhaps I am not his type.”

Yes, of course, once again assuming John was gay. John would hate that. “Have you seen him recently?” he tried to push without revealing the aggression he felt bubbling underneath.

“He was here not long ago.”

He waited for her to elaborate, when she didn’t he stifled another scream. “Where did he go?”

This time her smile was decadently evil. “He met with a handsome man and they both headed upstairs.” She watched her words settle upon him, then smiled slowly and added, “together.”

Every retort he had planned, every deduction he had wanted to throw at her, to tear her apart and make her burst into tears running away, died on his lips. He stood frozen, mind blank, unable to think.

She walked away, the evening crowd started to thicken around him, and still Sherlock stood there in the middle of the club, his brain unable to process her words.

John had gone upstairs with a man. Upstairs. With a man.

A man.

Sherlock may not have been shocked had it been a woman. John liked sleeping with women. The main reason John had gone out with a tedious string of women during their early days had been because of John’s desire to have sex with women. It surely wasn’t because John had actually liked his girlfriends. He clearly didn’t like them, he liked having sex with them. But—

John was upstairs with a man.

He had managed to deduce it a long time ago, all the way back to their first dinner together at Angelo’s: John was bisexual. John was aware of it, but uncomfortable with it. He was closeted.

Sherlock had never pushed the issue. As socially inept as he was, he knew that kicking someone out of their own closet was a bit not good. Besides, he had never been able to fully deduce exactly how aware John was of his own bisexuality. At the very least Sherlock was certain that John had never had sex with a man. Major Sholto had nearly come along and debunked that theory, but after direct observation and research, Sherlock was fairly certain that their relationship had never gone that far.

Now he found himself standing in the middle of a sex club, questioning everything all over again.

John was upstairs with a man. There was only one thing they could be doing upstairs. It was brothel for God’s sake!

He must have spoken aloud, several patrons turned to stare at him, angry and shocked. How long had he been standing there? He turned to leave, he needed air, he needed to leave, but instead he found himself inside a lift only moments later, pressing the button to the sixth floor. Sixth floor: private rooms.

The lift took forever to move. How old was the building? Surely no more than ten years old. Why was the lift so slow? And what the hell was wrong with the air system in this damn building? Why was it always so insufferably hot? Weren’t people more encouraged to have sex if they weren’t sweating like pigs?

John having sex. John having sex with a man. Possibly a dangerous man. Yes, possibly. That was why he was going after John. Possible danger. Thoroughly logical.

Or maybe...  No. No, John couldn't have been upset about Sherlock turning him down. Couldn't have sought comfort in another man. Impossible.  John had never slept with a man in all the years Sherlock had ever known him.

Besides, John had nothing to be disappointed about. John wasn't interested in Sherlock. Wasn't interested in men. John had married a woman. 

Then why was John in a private room, in a brothel, with a man?

It had to be one of Moriarty's goons. John was most likely in danger. That had to be it. It was the only logical conclusion.

His skin was uncomfortably damp with sweat, his breath unusually shallow, and the constant thudding of his heart was a maddening sound in his head.

At last the lift door pinged. Sixth floor.

He rushed out of the lift but came to an abrupt stop. The sixth floor looked exactly like the floor he had worked on the night before, only emptier. Instead of the hallways being lined with prostitutes, there was a single man dressed in black, standing in front of a podium as if he were a host at a fancy restaurant.

“May I help you sir?” he asked in German.

Sherlock took a moment to compose himself. Shoulders back and head lifted, he approached the man with every air of knowledgeable purpose. “I’m here to meet a couple of men, they should already be here.”

“Names?” the man asked directly without missing a beat.

“Hamish Rolfing, I don’t know the other name.” He made a point of looking at his watch, as if the entire affair were painfully tedious and time consuming.

The man looked down at his list, “ah yes, Hamish Rolfing and Andrew Turner, room twenty nine.”

Andrew Turner. His contact. Sherlock’s contact. The person he was supposed to meet in exchange for information. Not John. Not. John.

The man in front of him continued to talk, something tedious about a photo ID. Sherlock ignored him, moving forward down the hall.

A firm hand grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Sir, you can’t enter this floor without your name, a photo ID and your signature.”

“My name is Vernet Alvan. I work here on the third floor and if you don’t want to loose your job, or your arm, then I suggest you let go of me _now_.”

The other man shrank back immediately, face going pale, even in the orangish glow of the hallway sconces. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

Sherlock tore his arm from the man’s grip and headed down the hallway. He kept his eyes focused forward, ignoring the sounds emanating from behind each door. Ignoring the fact that one of those voices could belong to John.

Finally room twenty nine came into view. He reached out for the doorknob and—

Someone grabbed him from behind and started to pull him away. His head whipped sideways, trying to asses his attacker. A security guard had appeared from seemingly nowhere, pinning his arms to his sides and dragging him away from the door. Away from John. He tried to fight, tried every technique he knew, but the security guard was twice his size and twice as strong. There was little he could do.

Room twenty nine began to drift away. A fluttering panic pulsed through him. He couldn’t let them drag him away. He needed to get to John.

He struck out with the heel of his shoe, managing to strike the security guard’s shin hard enough to twist free from his grasp, then launched himself forward at a sprint, towards the door. He made it to there in a matter of seconds, hand reaching out, clasping the handle.

It was locked.

He jiggled the handle violently, as if that would help. No. No, he had to get in, he had to get in. John was in there with a man. A dangerous man. He had to open the door before…

Security grabbed him again. This time there was more than one pair of hands, more than one security guard. He was being dragged back down to the hallway and towards the lift.

“No!” he spoke in German, “let me go, I work here!”

They ignored him.

Room twenty nine disappeared from view as they forcibly hauled him into the lift. He couldn’t fight back, he could barely move, there were too many hands holding him captive.

Panic was now rolling through him in waves. Fingers dug bruises into his skin as he twisted and turned, but it was useless. The lift doors closed on them with a soft ping.

They carried him out of the club, into the cold evening air. They didn’t speak a word to him, just dumped him into the street. The message was clear: don’t come back.

He was left prostrate in the street, asphalt digging into his hands and knees. It took every fibre of his strength not to stand up and go back in. Instead he stared at a crack in the pavement until his vision blurred.

Snow began to fall lightly around him, melting onto the ground and into his skin. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. All he could think of was John, six floors above him, doing God knows what with one of Moriarty’s informants.

Cars drove past, the crowd around Pascha grew noisy, but all he could hear was a menacing whisper emanating from the darkest corner of his mind palace.

_I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you._

The cold snow continued to fall.


	7. Human Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Fucking hell, why was he getting emotional? Getting emotional was ruddy useless, Sherlock didn’t do emotions. Human error and all that rot. But try as he might, he couldn’t manage to swallow his emotions down. They were getting dangerously close to the surface. This was his cue to flee, he could’t allow Sherlock to see him like this, it was unacceptable.

By the time John left Pascha it was dark outside, a light layer of snow blanketing everything. He zipped his jacket up, shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way through the snow covered streets.

His muscles ached, and his mind felt sluggish with fatigue. All he wanted was a hot shower. Perhaps he’d have enough time to take a quick one, but they didn’t have much time. They had to pack and get a cab to the airport, their flight out of Germany was leaving in only a couple of hours. It was time for them to move on.

Every step he took felt heavy, leaden with the events of the last twenty four hours. He was looking forward to their next destination, the possibility of rest, even a short one. It felt like he hadn’t had a proper rest in years.

The dank motel hallway felt warm and inviting compared to the frigid outdoor air. John dug into his trouser pocket for the key, placed it into the lock and opened the door.

Hands grabbed and dragged him through the doorway. He heard the door slam behind him and then he was being shoved up against it. Sherlock stood before him, unwashed hair a riot of curls, eyes red rimmed and searching. John sharply inhaled at the intensity of Sherlock’s scrutiny. He was examining him like a crime scene, and John feared what he might discover.

“What happened,” Sherlock demanded.

John blinked. “What?”

“Don’t be stupid. I know you went to Pascha and got a room with Andrew Turner. Tell me what happened. Now.” His eyes were boring into John. He was frantic, borderline hysterical.

John ignored the fingers digging painfully into his arms. He closed his eyes, desperate to escape the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. After several steadying breaths he opened his eyes again, renewed determination coursing through his veins. “I took care of him. That’s all you need to know.”

He tried to push past Sherlock, but the grip on his arms only tightened. “Tell me.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. He shook his head and smiled, “no, no I’m not going to do this with you.”

He twisted his arms and broke free from Sherlock’s death grip, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him step away, he blocked him with his body, mirroring John’s every move.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock! Stop that or I swear to God I’ll punch you in the face.”

“I’ll leave you alone once you tell me what you did with Andrew Turner.” He looked manic.

“How the hell do you even know I was with Andrew Turner?”

Sherlock huffed in exasperation, “I woke up and you were gone. I went to Pascha, the blond in the bar told me you were with a man, the man on the sixth floor informed me that you were with Andrew Turner. Now, tell me what happened.”

He hesitated a moment. Sherlock had figured out everything, but he didn’t know what had happened with Turner. A sense of power sat upon his shoulders. It always felt good, knowing something Sherlock didn’t. “No,” he replied, then tried to move but Sherlock only hovered nearer.

“Tell me,” he snarled.

John had enough. He grabbed Sherlock and switched their positions in one swift motion, shoving his back against the wall. “All you bloody well need to know is that I got the information we needed. I called Mycroft and we’re flying out of here in less than two hours. Now, pack.” He released Sherlock and turned to grab his suitcase.

He had barely reached for it when Sherlock managed to grab his arm and fling him around until they were once again standing face to face. Sherlock’s expression frightened him. “We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

“We don’t have time for this Sherlock. Our flight is leaving soon.”

“Then tell me quickly.”

He clenched his jaw and grit his teeth. “There are things you don’t tell me. Things you did during your time away that I still don’t know about. Why is it that you can have your little secrets and I can’t? Hmm?”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again.

John nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He began to turn but Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“Wait.” He paused, seemingly searching for words. Silence dragged on before he finally said, “I’ll tell you anything. Ask me anything, and I’ll answer you.”

John narrowed his gaze.

“I won’t lie, I promise. Just tell me, tell me what happened with Andrew Turner.”

John searched but couldn’t understand anything he saw in Sherlock’s expression. Silence followed. “Why do you care so much? Does not knowing really drive you round the bend? Are you that bothered by it?”

Sherlock stepped towards him. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

John stepped back. “It’s not important. Nothing happened.”

Sherlock took another step towards him. “Then tell me.”

John stepped back again and felt the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed. “Why does it matter? I got the information we needed. You don’t have to know everything Sherlock. Just leave it.”

A strangled cry of frustration emanated from Sherlock’s mouth. “Just tell me!” he bellowed out in utter desperation.

“Fine!” John stepped forward, pointing a finger directly in Sherlock’s face, “first you tell me about Irene.”

Sherlock looked taken aback.

John hesitated. He had no idea why he was bringing up Irene-bloody-Adler. Where had the thought of her even come from? He must be out of his sodding mind.

“What?” Sherlock whispered into the silence.

He couldn’t take it back, Sherlock had clearly heard him, and he was already too busy evading one subject to try and a avoid another. It was all or nothing. “You heard me. Tit for tat. You tell me about Irene Adler. What did you two get up to together? Tell me and I’ll tell you about Andrew Turner.”

“What does she have to do with this?”

“Nothing. Honestly, she has nothing to do with this whatsoever. But it’s the principal of the thing. It’s about you keeping things from me while I’m expected to tell you everything. You know everything about me! You even managed to figure out what my sodding middle name was, even though I didn’t want you knowing. Meanwhile, I hardly know anything about you! I don’t have a brother who I can call and ask to look up private details in some locked up security file somewhere. So this is your chance, to be honest with me and to tell me the truth. It’s a two way road here Sherlock, you want to know things about me then you have to share your own secrets.”

Sherlock stood, clearly fumbling. “I— I thought we were in a hurry to get to the airport.”

John barked out his laughter then looked down at his feet. “Yeah.” He nodded and swallowed thickly, “yeah we are. Let’s pack.” He should have known that Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk about his precious Woman. He turned back to his suitcase once again and started shoving his clothes in.

A few moments later Sherlock’s deep baritone broke through the silence. “Nothing happened between us.”

John grabbed his phone charger and shoved it into the front pocket with unnecessary violence. “Right.”

“I’m telling you the truth!”

John turned and headed for the loo. “Yeah, and nothing happened with Turner and I.”

Sherlock followed him, long arms reaching outward in frustration. “I don’t even know why you’re asking about her. She’s gone. I haven’t seen her since Karachi!”

John rounded on him. “What?”

Sherlock froze, arms dropping to his sides.

“Karachi?” His voice sounded deadly, even to his own ears.

Sherlock remained frozen, his gaunt face shadowed under the harsh florescent light.

“When the hell were you in Karachi with Irene Adler?” He was gripping his toothbrush so tightly, he thought he might snap it in half.

Sherlock’s entire frame slumped minimally. “It was shortly after she left. I went there to save her life. She was about to be executed.”

“You saved her life.” He shifted his stance and clenched his fists even tighter. “You traveled to Karachi to save her life and you expect me to believe that nothing happened between the two of you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullocks.”

Silence descended upon them. They were standing only an arms width apart in the small space of the loo, eyes boring into each other with a tangible intensity. John’s breaths were shallow, every muscle tense, his spine ramrod straight. Sherlock looked as if he was about to collapse, he was barely breathing at all.

“John—“

“Don’t. Don’t you dare stand there and lie to my face. I am sick and tired of you lying to me!” A brief thought of Mary flashed through his mind. “I’m tired of everyone lying to me, but especially,” he pointed directly at Sherlock, “you.”

The faucet dripped, the light above them flickered and all the while Sherlock’s gaze laid upon him like a physical weight, holding him in place.

“John, I swear to you, I’m not lying. There was nothing between Irene and I. I pitied her. That was all.”

The dripping faucet felt like it was tapping away at his nerves. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

Sherlock inhaled a small sharp breath. “Why would I lie to you about this?”

“Oh, I dunno, you lie to me about almost everything else.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Fucking hell, why was he getting emotional? Getting emotional was ruddy useless, Sherlock didn’t do emotions. Human error and all that rot. But try as he might, he couldn’t manage to swallow his emotions down. They were getting dangerously close to the surface. This was his cue to flee, he could’t allow Sherlock to see him like this, it was unacceptable.

“You know what? You’re right, we don’t have time for this. Pack your suitcase Sherlock, we have to leave.” He tried to plough his way past Sherlock, but couldn’t. Sherlock placed his arms on each side of the doorjamb, refusing to let him through. A spike of panic shot through John’s nervous system. “Sherlock,” he ground out while focusing on a speck of lint on Sherlock’s shirt. “Let me out.”

“John,” his voice was unbearably soft and intimately close. They were only centimetres apart, and John wanted to back away but he was also determined not to back down. “I didn’t love her.”

John nodded. Of course. Of course Sherlock didn’t love her, Sherlock didn’t do human emotion. He tried again to escape but Sherlock’s body was a solid wall. “Right, okay. Now let me out of here so we can pack.”

Sherlock didn’t move. “Tell me about Turner,” his deep voice vibrated in John’s ear, making the hairs on his neck rise.

He continued to stare at the tiny ball of fuzz near Sherlock’s collar bone. “I went up to the room with him. He tried to kiss me, I punched him in the face. I ended up beating the shit out of him and that’s how I got the information we needed.” At last he managed to look up at Sherlock’s face. “Satisfied?”

Silence descended once again as Sherlock’s eyes flickered over every available inch of him. He was deducing and analysing and weighing everything John had told him against his own deductive reasoning. Apparently his conclusion aligned with John’s testimony. At last he moved aside, allowing John to finally leave the confines of the loo.

“Why do you care what happened between me and The Woman?”

Sherlock’s words stopped him in his tracks. After a moment’s pause he continued to move forward, gathering the last of his things and shoving them into his suitcase. “I don’t.”

“Now who’s lying?”

He could feel Sherlock at his back, nearly standing over him. Damn him and his height advantage. John busied himself with his luggage, methodically checking every pocket and zipper. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Sherlock’s hand circle his wrist, stopping his movement. His nerves buzzed, adrenaline still surging through his veins from his earlier fight with Turner.

Sherlock wasn’t attacking him, his touch was feather light, his warm breath fanning out over his neck. John took a deep breath. “Sherlock?”

“I agree. We need to stop lying to each other. If this is going to work, if we’re going to make it out of this alive, we need to be completely honest with each other.”

It was hard to concentrate on words when Sherlock’s thumb was idly tracing the vein on the inside of John’s wrist. He shut his eyes and focused on keeping his heart rate normal. Sherlock’s thumb was on his wrist, he’d be able to measure the effect his touch was having on him.

Not that it mattered, Sherlock was a scientific machine, he was only collecting data.

Human Error.

“John?”

“Yes?” John had lost track of the time. How long had they been standing there like that? He cleared his throat and managed to tear his hand away from Sherlock’s. “The truth. Yeah, good idea. Lets do that.” He plopped his suitcase on the floor and pulled the retractable handle out, ready to roll it to the door, but the moment he turned he found himself face to face with Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face was slightly scrunched, in the way it usually was when he was trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. John wondered what mystery he was trying to solve this time. “I’m serious John. I promise to tell you the truth from here on out.”

He was skeptical. Of course he was skeptical. Sherlock was a world class liar. “Yeah well, seeing’s believing, right? I’m afraid you’ll need to prove it to me over time. Until then, I won’t get my hopes up.” There was the emotion again, creeping up into his throat, threatening to make itself known. He swallowed it down again.

Christ, he needed sleep.

Sherlock didn’t move or say anything. His eyes bore into John’s unceasingly. “You need to pack,” John reminded him. Finally, Sherlock blinked, as if breaking from a trance.

He packed in silence, while John logged onto their computer and looked up the itinerary that Mycroft had sent.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked, while leaning over to tie his shoes.

“San Francisco.” A memory flashed before him, of his thumbs pressing into Turner’s windpipe, and the gasping, croaking sound of the city’s name finally escaping his lips.

“You must be pleased,” Sherlock straightened after he finished with his shoes, then stood, grabbing his suitcase and heading for the door.

“Why?” John followed him, with one last visual sweep to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.

He turned his head to John, a small smile playing at his lips. “They speak English there.”

John chuckled despite his sombre mood. “And it’s by the ocean, don’t forget how I love the ocean.”

Sherlock’s face softened. “How could I forget.” It was incredibly hard to believe he was an emotionless machine when he looked at John like that.

John swallowed down one last swell of emotion, flicked off the lights, and closed the door behind them.

 

 _______________

 

 

“Well, well, Mycroft Holmes. I never thought I’d hear from you again.”

That voice. It had been years since he had last heard that voice, and still the overly posh tone of it made him want to stab something.

Mycroft pressed the mobile closer to his hear. “Yes well, lets not get overly nostalgic, you know how I hate sentimentality.”

“Yes,” the voice on the other end of the line turned uncharacteristically serious, “I know.”

It was dark in his office, everyone had long gone home, leaving the building still and silent. He shifted in his seat, “you’re probably wondering why I’ve called.”

“I must admit, I am painfully curious.”

God, he still sounded just as smarmy as he had all those years ago. Mycroft loathed him.

He absently examined the golden band on his left hand. He didn’t want to say what he was about to say. “It’s about my brother.”

Silence followed.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft helpfully supplied.

Laughter erupted from the other end. “I do remember your brother. Quite vividly in fact.”

Mycroft clenched the arm of his chair. “I need to ask you a favour.”

“The great Mycroft Holmes is asking me a favour?” he crooned. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” This was slow torture. Being forced to deal with a man he throughly loathed, a man he had worked so hard to remove from their lives all those years ago.

He had no choice, he resolutely reminded himself. His hands were tied.

Once he had regained his composure, he continued. “You still live in San Francisco, correct?”

Mycroft pictured his wicked smile with clarity. “I do.”

“My brother will be arriving there shortly. I’ll be sending you his location, along with several other files. There’s something very specific I need you to do.”

“You have my full attention.”

Mycroft inwardly winced at the sheer amount of interest dripping from those words. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Sending the wolf directly to the lamb.

“I need you to find him, befriend him, and introduce him to some of your contacts. Is that understood?”

“Loud and clear.”

“And… Victor?”

“Yes?”

“Hands off.”

Soft snickering floated over the line. “I can’t make any promises, Mycroft dear.” The call abruptly ended.

A figure sat in the shadows of his office, silently watching him. The sound of clapping slowly built within the resounding silence. “Well done, big brother.”

Mycroft’s iron clad stomach threatened to churn. He said nothing in return, simply sat across from the shrouded figure of James Moriarty and contemplated the numerous ways in which a human could be tortured within an inch of their life.

Moriarty didn’t move, he remained seated within the shadows, his feral eyes nearly glowing in the dark. “How does it feel? Preparing your baby brother for slaughter? I imagine it feels similar to when Ms. Morstan shot him. After all… you were the one to place her in Dr. Watson’s path.”

“Under your specific orders,” Mycroft snapped.

“Mmmmm, yes. You are such a good poppet. Aren’t you?”

Mycroft couldn’t stomach another minute of this. In a rare act of surrender, he stood from his desk and left.

He walked out into the rain soaked streets of London, umbrella in hand. He didn’t unfurl it, however. Instead he let the rain fall upon him in heavy sheets as he made his way home on foot.

All he could do now was trust John Watson to protect his younger brother, while he was irrevocably incapable of doing so himself.


	8. No Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could still feel the spot on his temple where Sherlock had pressed his lips earlier. Well, there went his entire ‘no kissing’ policy down the drain… and probably his ‘no drinking’ policy as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is getting posted so late. I actually forgot today was Friday! Better late than never! Hopefully the length of this chapter will make up for the tardiness.

John was drunk.

He was a little foggy on how he’d gotten to the exact state of drunkenness he currently found himself in, but he found himself there none the less, bare feet propped on the coffee table next to Sherlock’s socked pair.

It had all been a bit of a blur. They had managed to land in San Francisco without incident, gotten a cab and arrived at a slanted house sandwiched between other houses on a hill. Everything in San Francisco seemed to be on a hill. It was an odd looking city, the likes of which John had never seen before. It was colourful yet dirty, sunny yet cold, and while John was itching to get a view of the ocean, he’d not yet had the privilege.

The cab had dropped them off in front of the house around midday. The air was bitterly cold, despite the shining sun, but it was a pleasant sort of cold. The kind of cold coastal towns tended to have, crisp, and damp and smelling of eucalyptus leaves. John breathed the fresh air into his lungs.

He had loved the ocean since he was a child, born of the rare occasions their grandmother had taken him and Harry to Brighton. He could still remember the brightly coloured shacks lining the coast, the pebbles crunching underfoot as he ran to the water. It was one of the few happy memories he had from his youth. Ever since then he had loved the idea of living by the ocean. It made his chest spread with warmth whenever he thought of it.

They climbed to the second story of the house. The first story belonged to a couple who were currently at work. Sherlock murmured absently as they ascended the stairs. They would be (appropriately, John thought) renting the upper floor.

The upper floor was furnished with sixties styled furniture. It felt even damper than it had below, John noticed, as he placed his suitcase in one of the two small bedrooms. They had a shared living space as well, and a kitchenette. It was a small space, but cozy in it’s own retro sort of way. Everything smelled slightly of mothballs.

John had eaten on the plane but he soon found himself hungry again, but when he opened their tiny fridge, he found it only contained an assortment of beers. Ah well… In for a penny, in for a pound.

He was nursing his fourth bottle while watching crap telly (finally he could watch crap telly in his native tongue, though America's 'crap' was even crappier than he humanly thought possible), when Sherlock had appeared with a bottle of red wine.

“Were did you find that?” he’d asked.

“In the pantry,” Sherlock answered while plopping down on the sofa next to him.

“There’s a pantry?” He thought about turning to look but decided he was too tired and lazy.

“Yep,” Sherlock popped the ‘p’ per usual, and unscrewed the cap.

Oh, John thought, not good. Sherlock was going to start drinking cheap wine. Sherlock always managed to get tipsy on cheap wine. Expensive wine? Never. Expensive wine, Sherlock had informed him, was meant to be sipped, savoured, and enjoyed. Cheap wine always received Sherlock’s patented look of disdain, and then was promptly gulped down, as if he were trying not to taste it at all.

So that was how, as best as John could tell, they both ended up seated on the couch, watching some sort of God awful soap opera and drinking copious amounts of alcohol until they were both rather drunk.

Sherlock very clumsily leaned forward and grabbed the remote.

“What’r you doing?” John mumbled.

“Changing the channel. S’rubbish.” He stared at the remote with incredible concentration. His fingers mashed the buttons but nothing happened.

“G’me.” John wrestled the remote from Sherlock’s hands. The moment he looked down at all the buttons he simply shrugged then started mashing them himself.

He managed to mute the voices, but then he couldn’t figure out how to undo it, let alone how to change the channel.  God, why were there so many buttons on this damn remote?  And why did any country need so many damn channels?  Surely there didn't need to be _that_ much crap?

“Shit.”

Sherlock was sitting next to him, giggling.

“Shut it. You try.” He chucked the remote at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught the remote, then promptly threw it over his shoulder. It produced a resounding ‘clunk’ when it hit the floor.

John chuckled. “Christ, we’re drunk.”

“Excellent observation.” Sherlock was giggling again.

“Fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was nice though, not worrying about anything. It felt incredibly good to relax, feet propped up on the coffee table. He flexed his toes and noticed how much larger Sherlock’s feet were compared to his.

They sat next to each other in silence, watching the images dance across the small screen.

Sherlock took another large gulp from the wine bottle then passed it to John. Their fingers bumped against each other.

John was staring up at the ceiling when Sherlock’s voice interrupted his empty minded daydreaming. “Turner tried to kiss you.”

He giggled. “Yeah, yes. Actually,” he turned his head towards Sherlock and found out he was much closer than he had expected him to be. “Actually, we did kiss.”

Sherlock swayed backward a bit. His eyes narrowed. “You kissed?”

“Yep,” he popped the ‘p’ just like Sherlock always did, then started giggling.

Sherlock wasn’t amused. “You told me nothing happened!”

John shook his head vigorously then immediately regretted it. It took awhile for the room to right itself. “I lied.”

A groan escaped Sherlock’s mouth as he leaned forward, resting his head in his large hands. “John,” he reprimanded, “we’re not supposed to lie to each other!”

John couldn’t stop giggling. “Since when?” This was a much easier conversation to have whilst drunk.

“Since…” Sherlock lifted his head and stared off into the distance, then abruptly shook himself into the present, “since… Now!”

“M’kay,” John nodded gravely. “Starting now. Good idea. Brilliant.”

They didn’t say anything for several moments. In fact it had been so long since they had said anything that John suspected Sherlock had fallen asleep. Then the familiar baritone of his voice interrupted John’s drunken reverie. “Did you like it?”

John had already forgotten what they were talking about. “Huh?”

“The kissing!” Sherlock was using his ‘don’t be stupid’ voice.

“Oh.” He didn’t know how to respond.

“Are you deaf or dumb? Answer me.” Sherlock was even more impatient when he was drunk.

“Dick.” John tried to make his brain work. “No. No, I did not like kissing him. I punched him.”

“Good.” Sherlock concluded. After several moments he added in a very quiet and small voice, “was it your first time?”

“Kissing?” John laughed loudly.

“No,” Sherlock rolled his eyes grandly. “Was it your first time kissing a man?”

“Oh.” John’s laughter slowly died. “No.”

Sherlock looked at him, like he was a number eight crime scene that needed to be solved. “When was the first time you kissed a man?” 

John took a large gulp of red wine. He scooted further into the comfort of the sofa, enjoying the floating feeling of the alcohol. “Uni. I was drunk.” He chuckled at that.

Ice blue eyes studied him thoughtfully. Sherlock was entirely too sober. He needed more alcohol John decided as he passed the wine bottle over. Sherlock didn’t drink, instead he placed the bottle on the coffee table with a loud clonk. “How many men have you kissed? When? Why? Where?”

“Jesus!” John grabbed the wine bottle back and took another hefty swig. “Wadda you care?”

Sherlock attempted to shrug casually but ended up nearly falling off the sofa. He righted himself with as much grace as he could muster. “Just curious.” He leaned back, placing his arm along the back of the sofa, body angled towards John, awaiting a response.

John placed the bottle back down on the table, then leaned his head back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling again. “Just two… er three if you count Turner. One in Uni when I was incredibly drunk. One in the military when I was incredibly emotional. Both were a mistake.”

Silence filled the room. John turned to find Sherlock looking at him with an unreadable expression. John’s head was leaning on Sherlock’s arm but he was too drunk to be fussed about it. The warmth of it felt good.

“Why was it a mistake?” Sherlock prompted.

“Which one?”

“Both.”

John returned his gaze to the ceiling, the back of his head still resting on Sherlock’s arm. “The first time… I was in Uni and I was so pissed I probably couldn’t have told you my own name.” He cleared his throat. “His name was Collin and I thought he was flirting with me and I have no idea why I thought it was a good idea to kiss him but I did… Then he punched me and called me a fag and left the party. Everyone was laughing at me, and I tried to laugh too, because it was funny. But… I felt too ill to laugh, and instead ended up running outside and vomiting in the hedges.”

Christ, he hadn’t thought of that memory in years.

“The second time was in Afghanistan… I thought he was going to die. He was looking at me and I… I knew him. We were mates. I thought he wanted me to kiss him, so I did. He didn’t punch me, probably because he was dying.” John laughed at his own joke, but Sherlock remained silent beside him. “He didn’t die though. And the next day he told me he never wanted to see me again.” John shrugged.

Fingers grazed his shoulder, and it took several moments for him to realise that the fingers belonged to Sherlock. The touch didn’t leave, instead it lingered, then brushed his shoulder again. The softest, most feather like touch.

He let his eyes slip closed. He remembered with vivid clarity how it felt to cradle Sherlock in his arms in their bed in Germany. He remembered the way Sherlock’s skin had tasted beneath his lips, the warm musky scent of him filling John’s nostrils. He could even remember the sensation of Sherlock’s heart pounding beneath the palm of his hand.

John’s eyes opened. He turned his head to the side, and found himself gazing into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s ocean deep eyes, his expression open and trusting. John’s cheek nuzzled into Sherlock’s arm, breathing in his familiar scent. It was like coming home.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the topic they had been discussing, but John suddenly found himself longing to kiss Sherlock. He felt himself drift forward, towards that incredibly lush mouth of his.

Then he caught the scent of alcohol on Sherlock’s breath and it all came crashing back to him with the violent force of a lorry hitting him squarely in the chest.

He reeled backwards. Suddenly he was back at Pascha, back in the red room with Turner, and Turner’s mouth was pressed against his ear, breath reeking of alcohol, whispering words to him… Telling him things he wished wern't true.

He snapped himself out of the memory, and back to the present. Back to Sherlock who was staring at him intently from the other side of the sofa.

His eyes felt watery as he looked down to his feet and tried to breathe.

He wished he was someone else. He wished he wasn’t married to a psychopathic stranger. He wished Sherlock wanted even half of the things he wanted. He wished he had a life he knew he could never have.

He could still remember with crystal clarity how it had felt to kiss the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Don’t—Sherlock had said. Don’t.

John squeezed his eyes shut. No, Sherlock didn’t want any of the things he wanted.

When he finally managed to tear his gaze up from the ground, he found Sherlock seated across from him, still staring at him intently.

John stood abruptly. “I have to piss,” he announced, then fumbled forward, towards the loo.

Once he was safely pressed against the closed door, he took several steadying breaths then promptly felt ill. He found himself clutching the cold porcelain of the toilette but nothing came up, his churning stomach was empty. Instead he pressed his feverish brow against the lid. Regret burned his stomach like acid.

 

______________

 

Allowing John to get drunk had been a monumental mistake.

It’d been hours since Sherlock had watched John run off to the loo, and he hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

At some point John had snuck off to his bedroom and closed the door. Sherlock knew this because he found himself standing in front of it, staring daggers at the wood.

Why was John so difficult? Why was he so frustratingly human?! Why were emotions so annoyingly incomprehensible?!!

Sherlock tore at his hair in frustration then turned and stormed downstairs and into the outdoor air. He lit a cigarette and smoked until his muscles relaxed and his lungs burned.

Caring is not an advantage.

He threw his cigarette onto the ground and dug his mobile out of his trouser pocket. Three rings later, the sound of his brother’s drawl filled his ear.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Sherlock ignored the accuracy of his brother’s jibe. “I’m only going to ask you this one more time. What are you doing about Moriarty?”

An abnormally long pause followed.

“I’ve already answered you, Moriarty is being handled.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock shifted his mobile to the other ear, “then by all means tell me, what is his next move?”

He could practically hear the pain in his brother’s voice when he muttered, “I don’t know.”

Sherlock bit back a curse. Cursing is for idiots, he could practically hear his brother admonish. “Just admit it Mycroft, you don’t know anything.”

“I know that your Dr. Watson is a blundering fool. Tell me, how many times are you going to allow John to blow your cover? Mmmm?”

He tightened his grip on the phone and stared intently at the faded cement beneath his feet.

“My men have not appreciated covering his tracks. Did you know that Andrew Turner was nearly dead by the time they found him?”

Sherlock remained motionless, staring at the ground unblinking.

“He was severally concussed. Surely an experienced doctor such as John would have known.”

Sherlock’s mind was whirring. He had meant to ask John about what had happened with Turner, but their conversation had gotten stuck on the subject of kissing and… Why had he allowed himself to drink so much wine? He had only meant to drink a little, but it had been cheep, and John had been drunk, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Clearly, it wasn’t. Now he had no clue as to what had happened between John and Turner, besides the fact that they had kissed and John had punched him. But why had John attacked Turner so ruthlessly? Yes, John had a temper, but there had to have been a significant reason for him to risk their mission again. He’d have to ask John about it another time.

“As you’ve so helpfully pointed out,” Sherlock ground out, “John has made our trail a rather obvious one. Moriarty must be aware of our every move, and yet he hasn’t bothered to intervene. We can’t afford for him to have the upper hand. So let me ask you yet again brother dear, what are you doing about it?”

He shifted his focus up to the indigo sky above, just as a flock of seagulls passed overhead. An evening breeze picked up, the crisp air cold against his skin, as a handful of stars began to pop up against the darkening sky. It made him think of John.

“I am handling Moriarty.” There was nothing but leaded steel in Mycroft’s voice. An unspoken vow that made Sherlock trust in him fully. “You handle John,” he added.

Sherlock scoffed. “There is no ‘handling’ John. John refuses to be handled.” He glanced up at the lit window of John’s room.

“I doubt that,” Mycroft crooned playfully, “if anyone could handle him, it would be you.”

He rolled his eyes in such a way that he knew his brother would be able to hear the gesture over the phone, “the last thing I need is relationship advice from you.”

“Oh!” Mycroft proclaimed. “Are you two finally in a relationship? Allow me to telegram Mummy and Father. They’ll be oh so pleased.”

“Sod off!”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft tutted, “he’s been rubbing off on you.”

Sherlock winced. “Never, ever make a sexual innuendo in my presence ever again.”

“That wasn’t an innuendo, your mind has rolled off into the gutter. Perhaps this relationship isn’t the best idea.”

This conversation was ridiculous. It needed to end.

“What was that you said?” Sherlock yelled into the line. “The call keeps cutting out.”

“Still using that immature trick dear brother?”

“I still can’t hear you, the reception is ghastly.”

Mycroft chuckled knowingly. “Goodbye, brother dear.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother responding, he simply mashed the ‘end call’ button and shoved his mobile back into his pocket.

He looked back up at John’s window, looming above him, then reached into this pocket and dug out a cigarette. He needed another smoke.

 

_______________

 

John’s face was currently mashed against his pillow. He groaned and moved onto his back. Christ, how long had he been asleep? His hand fumbled for the table lamp and flipped it on. It was dark outside, he must have been asleep for several hours. Sodding jet lag.

His head was pounding and his throat felt as dry as sandpaper.

After several tries, he managed to launch himself out of bed. God, why did he keep forgetting what a colossal mistake it was to get himself drunk? He seriously needed to stop.

While he was pulling his trousers and shirt on, he suddenly remembered why he had locked himself up in his room in the first place.

Had he really tried to kiss Sherlock… again? Bloody hell, he really needed to stop doing that as well.

Right, no getting drunk and no snogging Sherlock.

Once that was decided, he cracked his door open and listened for any sign of life. He wasn’t quite ready to face Sherlock yet.

The living area was completely silent. He opened his door fully, relaxed in the knowledge that Sherlock was undoubtedly hiding away in his own room.

He padded to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it with water. It was then, with his glass at his lips, that he heard the sound of voices quickly ascending the stairs.

Shit.

He contemplated running to his room, but the voices were too close, they would have seen him rushing across the living area. Instead he downed the entire glass and braced himself for unwelcome intruders.

Three figures emerged from the top of the stairs. One of them was Sherlock and the other two were males John had never seen before. They were both roughly in their fifties, and even taller than Sherlock. One had red hair and freckles and the other was brunette and a bit rotund. Both wore expensive looking trousers and different coloured cashmere jumpers. They looked a bit like university professors.

John remained in the kitchen, motionless, head still pounding. He watched the three of them warily, trying to get his mushy brain to process what was going on, who the two men were supposed to be.

Then Sherlock said something that had them all break out into laughter. The uncharacteristic sound broke John from his hung over stupor.

“Ah!” Sherlock had finally noticed John standing in the kitchen, staring at them like an idiot. “I didn’t know you were up. Did we wake you darling?”

John blinked. How hung over was he? He had just begun to calculate exactly how mushy his brain was when he felt a pair of lips press against his temple.

He turned his head to find Sherlock standing next to him, one of his lanky arms wrapped around his waist.

John blinked again.

“So this is your other half?” One of the two blokes spoke up.

John turned to find the pair of strangers standing on the opposite side of the kitchen peninsula, staring at John and Sherlock with open curiosity and affection.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered with a tight squeeze to John’s waist. “This is my husband Christopher.”

John was still dreaming, there was no other explanation for it. He had experienced this exact nightmare before. It must be reoccurring.

“Hi!” One of the two men extended his hand to John. “I’m Mark and this is Steve. We’re the couple downstairs. It’s nice to meet you Chris. Do you mind if we call you Chris?”

John took his hand and shook it robotically.

Sherlock responded for him, which he was incredibly grateful for, he wouldn’t have been able to squeak out a single syllable. “Of course he doesn’t mind. I’m one of the few who call him Christopher.”

The one named Steve reached out and shook his hand as well, and then Sherlock and Mark and Steve left the kitchen while John remained standing there unmoving, empty glass in his hand.

“Forgive us, we’re a bit knackered. Jet lag and all that.” He could hear Sherlock’s voice drift across the room.

Mark and Steve chuckled. “Knackered, God we love your accent. It’s adorable.”

“Well, we better let you two sleep, we should all have dinner tomorrow night!”

“That would be lovely,” Sherlock responded.

Their voices drifted off down the stairs.

John was still in the kitchen, contemplating whether or not it was time to pinch himself awake.

Several moments later Sherlock was standing in front of him, concern etching his features. “John?”

He didn’t move or speak, just stood there, staring intently into his empty glass.

Finally he managed to croak, “husband?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, it’s our cover while we’re here. Problem?”

John wanted to yell, to demand answers. He wanted to know why nobody ever consulted him in these matters? Instead he simply nodded and shuffled off to his room.

Husbands.

Right.

He could still feel the spot on his temple where Sherlock had pressed his lips earlier. Well, there went his entire ‘no kissing’ policy down the drain… and probably his ‘no drinking’ policy as well.

He suddenly felt incredibly tired again. He needed to sleep, for another year at least.


	9. The Game is On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Sherlock thought, as they stood together, awaiting Mark and Steve’s arrival, this would all end in disaster. It would end with Sherlock even more hopelessly in love with John than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late! This chapter was a beast and required a lot of editing. I hope it turned out ok. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your comments, your support makes me incredibly happy!

 

 

John slept until noon the next day.

The harried events of the past few days, mixed with jet lag, had left him bone tired. He buried his head in his pillow and closed his eyes against the afternoon light streaming through the thick, heavy curtains.

It was cold. A familiar cold, that reminded him of waking up to frigid mornings at Baker Street. Even the soft grey light streaming through the window felt familiar.

For the first time since they had left London, John felt homesick.

He felt homesick for a home he no longer had. Baker Street was no longer his home, and the realisation of it left his heart aching.

John gathered the blankets up to his neck and buried his face deeper into the warmth, banishing all thought of Mary and London from his mind. This was the present; Sherlock and this mission were his current priorities. He couldn’t dwell on home.

Time passed as he continued to drift in and out of sleep, wrapped up warm inside a protective cocoon of blankets.

After awhile, the persistent urge of his bladder forced him from his room and into the loo, grabbing a pair of clothes on his way out.

The scorching shower water was a welcome comfort. He stood under the spray for what felt like hours, thinking of nothing in particular, simply breathing in the humid air.

After showering and dressing, John padded out into the living space in search of some sort of heater. The room was empty and quiet. Sherlock must have decided to finally get some much needed sleep.

He eventually found a wall heater and flicked it on, then grabbed some cereal before returning to his room, computer in hand.

For several hours he stared at his computer screen, surrounded by the soft still silence of his room. The sky outside grew grey and cloudy, making John long for a steaming warm cuppa.

Eventually the sound of running water could be heard through the wall he shared with the loo, Sherlock was up and showering.

It wasn’t till he could smell the rich aroma of food that John realised he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. A single glance at the clock made him start. It was already a quarter till four in the afternoon.

He stood and stretched, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles, then plodded out of his room and into the kitchen.

What he found there made me stop still in his tracks.

Sherlock was cooking.

Sherlock. Was. Cooking.

“Don’t look so shocked. Of course I can cook. It’s mere chemistry.”

John had no idea how Sherlock had known he was shocked, he hadn’t looked up at John once since he’d walked into the room. Sherlock was too busy focusing on the stove in front of him. Several pans were simmering on the hob, emitting mouth watering smells into the room, and Sherlock was at the center of it all, juggling every dish with all the flair and expertise of Jamie Oliver.

It was shocking.

“I can’t help it. I’ve never seen you cook before. Not even toast.”

“Toast is boring,” Sherlock complained.

“Right,” John couldn’t help but chuckle. “Of course it is.” He stepped into the kitchen and reached for one of the lids.

Sherlock slapped his hand away.

“Heaven forbid you ever do anything boring.”

“Heaven has nothing to do with it.” Sherlock danced around the kitchen, grabbing herbs and seasonings as he went. “Cooking is an art form. Any idiot can toast bread,” he glanced at John pointedly.

“Ta.” John flipped a smirking Sherlock the bird, then managed to pilfer a slice of bread from a nearby basket while escaping the kitchen.

He sat at one of the barstools on the opposite side of the kitchen peninsula, and began plucking away at his bread. “Where did you get all of this?”

Sherlock lifted a lid and sprinkled pepper in. “I went to the store while you were hiding in your room.”

“Oi!” he protested. Sherlock levelled him with a look. “Fine. I wasn’t hiding though, I was checking my email.”

“That took you four hours?” Sherlock mocked.  "Unsurprising, given your dreadfully slow typing technique."

“Arse,” John mumbled between bites of bread. “I also did some writing.”

Sherlock turned and looked at him, concern etched upon his features.

“Not for the blog. I wouldn’t publish our adventures here. I’m not that idiotic.”

A snort of derision sounded from Sherlock, as he lifted one of the pot lids and leaned in to stir.

“I was writing a personal journal you great git, not that’s it’s any of your business.” His stomach grumbled loudly, the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen were making him even hungrier that he already was.

As if in answer to his internal grumbling, Sherlock offered up a spoon, filled with red sauce. “Try it,” he urged.

John took a taste, then audibly groaned. “Jesus, Sherlock that is amazing! Why have you never cooked something like this before?”

Sherlock shrugged, then returned to stirring. “You never asked.”

“I never knew, you sodding bastard.” John smiled at him. What else didn’t he know about Sherlock? After a few quiet moments of watching Sherlock cook, John suddenly remembered why they were preparing dinner for four. “When are Mark and…”

“Steve,” Sherlock provided while opening the fridge and grabbing an onion.

“Steve. When are they… uh— coming for dinner?” It was then, with Sherlock’s lithe figure leaning into the fridge that John noticed how nicely dressed he was, in dove grey trousers and a white collared shirt. Sherlock always looked nice in grey trousers, they accentuated his figure even better than the black ones did—

What the hell…?

Where had that thought come from? He shook the intruding thought violently from his head, then picked up a cloth napkin to fidget with.

“Around six o’clock.” The sound of Sherlock chopping, drew John’s head up from the napkin.

It was still such a foreign image, seeing Sherlock doing something as domestic as chopping an onion.

“You like this.” Sherlock’s deep voice stated.

“Onions? Can’t say I’m too keen. They make my breath reek.”

“No, not onions. This. Me, cooking. You like it.” Sherlock didn’t look at John, his eyes were on the onion as he sliced it methodically.

The sound of simmering pots and Sherlock’s sure quick knife work, filled the room. John didn’t know what to say, he thought of cracking a joke but couldn’t think of any. Instead he simply said, “yeah. I do.”

Sherlock finally looked at him, crystal blue eyes glassy with moisture from cutting the onion. It made him look incredibly vulnerable. After a beat he said, “don’t get your hopes up, this won’t be a regular thing.”

“No? Not thinking of switching occupations?”

He smiled, while returning to his task. “The world can only handle one Gordon Ramsey.”

John chuckled softly, “quite right.” He sat in silence for awhile, desperate to avoid the subject of the night ahead, but knowing it needed to be broached. He looked up at the clock, noticing that it was already half past five. “What’s the plan then?”

Sherlock shuffled over to the stove and dropped the chopped onions into one of the pots. He wiped his hands on a tea towel, then placed them on the counter and leaned forward. “Mark and Steve aren’t informants, they’re two completely ordinary men, offering their upstairs accommodations to us. We’re having dinner with them, partly as practice, partly to solidify our cover for anyone who may come calling.”

“Right. So… We’re married because?”

Sherlock shrugged. “No idea.”

John gapped.

A beat passed as Sherlock leaned in further, as if beseeching John to believe him. “I don’t know all of Mycroft’s plans John. I’m not always keeping things from you. Though, to be fair, I usually am. But in this case, I’m not.”

He nodded, somehow unsettled by the fact that Sherlock knew little more than he did.

“There are some things we need to go over, however, in order to be a convincing couple.”

John nodded again, he had already thought about it a bit, while he’d been holed up in his room. “Of course. Such as how we met, and so on.”

“I was thinking…” Sherlock looked down at the counter, then back up again. “We should keep things as simple as possible. The best lies, are in part truth. We’re from London, we met in a lab at St. Barts. I needed a roommate, you needed a room. We started off as colleagues, then became friends…” He glanced down again, this time at John’s hands, still clenching the cloth napkin. “Then we fell in love.”

Sherlock lifted his gaze and looked directly at him. John fought to keep eye contact without looking away. He felt frozen, nearly incapable of breathing while Sherlock’s eyes pinned him in place.

They remained silent, staring, until one of the pots started to boil over. Sherlock broke away to turn down the nob.

“Then we got married,” Sherlock continued casually, while busily checking on the food. “You’re a doctor, I’m a detective, all the same stuff. Only a few differences. That way—“ Sherlock returned his attention to John, “you can lie more convincingly.”

John felt a hot spark of anger flare inside of him. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t be like that,” he tossed an oven mitt onto the counter, then placed his hands on his narrow hips.

“Like what?” John stood but didn’t leave.

Sherlock sighed up at the ceiling, clearly exasperated. “Offended. We both know you’re a horrible actor.”

John crossed his arms. “This again?”

Blue eyes narrowed on him. “Yes. This again. You’ve already proved on this trip that you can’t keep a proper cover without swiftly blowing it.”

The lava of anger boiling inside of him, erupted. “Lovely. Great. Just great— Yes, let’s beat this old horse bloody, shall we? I’m a horrible sodding actor who can’t lie. I’m a liability. It’s the reason you never took me with you when you died, and now I’m endangering your life and this mission.” He took in a heaving breath, fist clenching at his side. He channeled his anger, directing it all at Sherlock. “Why don’t you just take me outside and shoot me if I’m so damn useless?!”

“Shhhhh.”

“Don’t you dare ‘shhhh’ me you fucking wanker!” He knew he was being loud, he knew Mark and Steve—hell, the entirety of San Francisco— could probably hear every word he was saying. He didn’t fucking care. Right now he wanted to shove Sherlock against the wall and punch him till he could no longer speak.

“You’re going to blow another one of our covers.” Sherlock had rounded the peninsula, standing a safe distance away from John, yet close enough to pounce upon him if he got too out of hand.

“Fuck you!” He bellowed. Sherlock flinched.

Sherlock’s words stung, like daggers. He wanted to be useful, he wanted to help, and here was Sherlock, throwing all of his mistakes in his face. He couldn’t stand there a moment longer. He threw his hands up in the air and declared, “I’m done.”

“What?” Sherlock froze.

“I. Am. Done.” John started to step back. “If I’m so incredibly useless to you, then you can do this all by yourself. I’m going home.”

“John,” Sherlock stepped towards him, desperate.

“No. I’m not doing this.” John turned and headed for his room.

“John,” Sherlock grabbed him, yanking him back.

It took every ounce of self control John had, not to punch Sherlock square in the jaw.

“John, I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“Oh really?” He rounded on Sherlock, their faces only centimetres apart. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me. You’re blaming me for this entire mission going to hell… And— maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t belong here.”

He tried to turn away again, this time defeated, but Sherlock shocked him by taking his hand in his. “You don’t mean that.”

John looked down at their clasped hands. He suddenly felt small. Not only because Sherlock’s hand was so much larger than his, but because he could never hope to be as great as the great Sherlock Holmes. He could never lie as efficiently. Or solve puzzles, or tear down networks like Sherlock could. He’d always be several steps behind, buggering everything up.

Several moments later, John managed to tear his gaze from their hands, and up to Sherlock’s wide eyes. “Yes, I do mean it Sherlock. You were right before, when you came back, I’m just a liability.”

Sherlock stepped forward, impossibly closer. “You do belong here. Us against the rest of the world… remember?”

John chuckled despite himself, the memory of Sherlock’s return still vivid in his memory. “Yes, of course I do.” He smiled sadly. “But, Sherlock, I’m not helping you here. I’m only making things worse. I’ve already ruined two missions.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

John scoffed. “Right.”

“It doesn’t.” Sherlock stooped down, so that his face was close to John’s. “Moriarty must know what we’re up to, I’m sure of it. Whatever his plan is, we’re playing right into it.”

“And that’s supposed to re-assure me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s thumb traced over the back of John’s hand comfortingly. “It’s our plan too. To make Moriarty think that we’re walking straight into his trap. But we have one thing he doesn’t have.”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, his expression earnest and unbelievable kind. “What?”

Sherlock’s face broke into a conspiratorial smirk of mischief. “Mycroft,” he answered.

John giggled despite himself, looking off to the side, away from Sherlock’s intimate gaze. “Thank God the world only has one Mycroft Holmes.” Sherlock chuckled in response as John returned his gaze. “And that he’s on our side.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, simply nodded, while still stroking his thumb idly over the back of John’s hand. It made a shiver crawl up his spine. He extracted his hand from Sherlock’s with a short quick cough. “Right. So… I suppose I’ll stay, if… you know, sabotaging our missions is what needs to be done. I’m just the right man to do it.”

The intensity of Sherlock’s gaze upon him, made him want to turn and run away. Just when he was thinking of doing just that, Sherlock suddenly proclaimed, “I have a plan.”

Great, John thought. Sherlock had a plan, that rarely meant anything good. “What’s your plan?” he asked whilst bracing himself.

“A challenge, really.” Sherlock stood back, finally giving him the space that he needed. “I think you can act, rather well actually, given the right motivation.”

“Ok.” John suddenly felt uneasy, unsure of where this was going.

“I have a challenge. Tonight, during dinner, each of us will try to make the other person break character.”

John cocked his head to the side, “what?”

“We’ll each try to make the other person break character. Surely you’ve seen Saturday Night Live.”

“Yes, of course I’ve seen SNL, I had no idea you had ever seen SNL…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t live under a rock.”

“The Earth travels around the sun.”

“John,” Sherlock whinged.

“Darth Vader is a famous villain in a movie.”

“John.”

“The Prime Minister is—“

“John!”

“Fine, ok, you know what SNL is,” he shook his head in mock disbelief.

“Yes,” Sherlock insisted in earnest, “and sometimes one of the actors tries to make the others break by attempting to be the funniest person in the scene.”

“Yeah ok. What does that have to do with us?”

Sherlock, threw his head back and groaned. “Sometimes John, you can be so incredibly slow.”

“Do you want me to go and pack? Cause I’m more than willing—“

“You and I will try to out-gay the other in order to make the other person break character!”

John stood across from Sherlock, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, before breaking out in laughter. “Out-gay?” he managed to gasp out. “Really? You couldn’t think of a better term?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled, “can you?”

John thought about it for a moment, laughter threatening to escape as he fought to keep a straight face. The whole situation was rather ridiculous. “No, no I can’t. Go on then.”

Sherlock was petulantly unamused. He crossed his own arms across his chest, like an over-grown child. “The rules are simple. There are no boundaries, we can do anything to try to make the other person break, the first to break looses.”

John turned serious, “okay, what does the winner get?”

Sherlock blinked, as if he hadn’t thought of that yet. “Whatever he wants.”

“Whatever he wants?” John repeated.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied confidently.

“Fine. You’re on.” Then he turned and went to his room. This was his chance to prove himself as an actor. And if this challenge was going to be even half way fair, he needed to change his clothes.

 

 

_______________

 

 

Apparently Sherlock was full of monumentally idiotic ideas.

Get John tipsy so he would share information on Andrew Turner: failed.

Try not to break character while pretending to be married: bound to fail.

Just how stupid was his newfound sentimentality making him?

Now, as he stood in the kitchen, stirring the pasta sauce vigorously, he felt himself starting to panic. This could only end in disaster.

What had he been thinking? In his desperation to keep John happy, to keep John from leaving, he had invented this ludicrous competition.

Of course he knew John would accept, John was extremely competitive.

Sherlock wasn’t even worried about losing, he had already intended on letting John win. What he was really worried about was giving himself away.  There was no way he could pretend to be John’s husband. To touch him, and hold him, and possibly even kiss him, without John figuring out how Sherlock really felt.

He couldn’t let John get that close. Couldn’t let John know his true feelings, because if John knew…

If John knew, he might actually leave.

The sound of John emerging from the bathroom made him jump. He grabbed several wine glasses from a cupboard and began filling them.

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked up and his heart skipped a beat. John looked incredibly handsome. He was dressed in a dark blue cashmere jumper, and kaki trousers. The jumper accentuated his silvery hair and deep blue eyes, the trousers were ironed crisply and fit well. They accentuated his muscled thighs and… well— Sherlock could clearly imagine what other part of his anatomy was well accentuated from the back.

He over poured one of the glasses in his distracted state, spilling wine on the table. “Damn,” he muttered while grabbing the nearest tea towel to mop up the mess.

This game was going to be even harder than he’d originally thought, and that was saying quite a lot, as he had originally thought it would prove impossible.

“Do I look alright?” John asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he concentrated on pouring the other glasses. “Yes, fine,” he mumbled angrily.

Silence filled the room as John tidied up, while Sherlock set the card table. His eyes kept finding their way to John, sneaking covert glances. John was more addictive than cocaine, Sherlock decided. The realisation was both intoxicating and dangerous. Everything Sherlock loved. Christ, he was in trouble…

Mark’s voice suddenly hollered from below, interrupting his thoughts. “Ready up there?”

“Yes, come on up!” Sherlock responded from the top of the stairs.

John walked over to Sherlock and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Ready, Love?”

He tried to ignore the endearment, the way it made his heart hammer and his insides spread with thick honey-wine warmth. He nodded, too afraid his voice would crack, ending the entire ruse right then and there.

John smiled, and stood on tip toes to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “the game is on.” Then he kissed his cheek ever so lightly before settling in beside him, hands still entwined.

Yes, Sherlock thought, as they stood together, awaiting Mark and Steve’s arrival, this would all end in disaster. It would end with Sherlock even more hopelessly in love with John than ever before.


	10. Pretend Husbands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s eyes looked the same now. So soft, and warm, and filled with an emotion John refused to name, because he refused to believe Sherlock capable of feeling it. But it was there, right at the surface, staring him in the face. Love.

 

The sun had started to set as Sherlock and John greeted their guests into the small but cozy living space.

Mark carried a record player and Steve was carrying several candles.

“Why don’t we make the room a bit cosier, shall we?” Mark winked conspiratorially. Immediately he set off to plug the record player into the nearest outlet while Steve lit the candles.

John’s palms were sweating, as a knot of anxiety built inside his gut. What had seemed like a harmless game was quickly turning into an intimidating challenge.

The sound of soft jazz music, mixed with glowing candle light was turning their homely living space into a romantic stage, and all of a sudden John was feeling an incredible amount of performance anxiety.

He watched as Mark moved across the room to Steve, their arms intertwined so naturally. They looked comfortable, natural, well at ease. John felt like he had ants crawling under his skin. He felt itchy, and restless. This was a mistake, he wasn’t an actor, he was absolutely rubbish at this. He was going to lose. Horribly.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was flitting about the room, passing out wine glasses and making small talk. He was a natural at acting. If John hadn’t known any better, he would have bought every lie Sherlock was selling to their guests. Currently he was talking about how frequently they entertained their friends back at home. A blatant lie of course, the last time they had hosted anything was several Christmases ago.

“We just love spending time with other couples, don’t we Dear?”

John blinked before responding, still completely unaccustomed to Sherlock using any sort of endearment. Annoyingly, it reminded him of his little ruse with Janine. John immediately shook that memory as far away from his thoughts as humanly possible, and responded to Sherlock with a smile and a nod. “Yes, Love.”

Sherlock gave him a knowing nod before taking another sip of wine.

“So,” Mark suddenly announced, “tell us all about yourselves. We hardly know anything.”

They settled into the furniture. Mark and Steve took the sofa, while John and Sherlock sat in opposite facing armchairs. John was momentarily relieved at not having to sit close to Sherlock. Mark and Steve were nearly sitting in each other’s laps. Steve had his hand pressed firmly atop Mark’s leg, and Mark had his arm slung over the back of the sofa, behind Steve’s shoulders.

John glanced at Sherlock, wondering which of them was expected to respond. Sherlock didn’t glance back, instead he sat quietly, sipping his wine. Ball was in John’s court then.

Right.

“Umm… Well, we met in London.”

Steve, who John had noticed, was much quieter than Mark, nodded and hummed for him to continue.

“We uh… I had just been invalided from Afghanistan. I ran into my old friend Mike, and I mentioned that I was looking for a roommate, and well—he knew of someone who was looking for a roommate as well. Turned out to be Sher- ” John suddenly remembered their aliases, "Sean."  He gestured at Sherlock, who was listening with rapt attention.

“Just invalided from Afghanistan?” Mark gasped. “That must have been awful. I’m sorry to hear that. Really. But, thank you for serving.”

John didn’t really know how to respond to Mark’s heartfelt gratitude. He looked down at the ground and cleared his throat before looking back up at Mark. “It was my pleasure. To serve, that is. And yes, it was hard, coming back…”

Flashes of memories flitted through his mind. Memories of getting shot, of the pain, and the difficulty… He remembered so clearly what it had been like, walking through London with a cane, the humiliation he’d felt knowing that his limp was all in his head, the frustration of not being able to fix it no matter how hard he tried. He remembered his old bedsit, and the shroud of loneliness that hovered over him, the gun he kept hidden in a drawer.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah… I was in really bad shape. Then Sean—“ He looked at his best friend sitting across from him. “Sean saved me.” He paused to take in a deep breath, because the words felt heavy as he heaved them from his chest. “He saved me in every way imaginable.”

Sherlock’s expression faltered for a moment, transforming into something unreadable, then he was back to acting, all smiles when he said, “he’s exaggerating of course.”

“No, actually. I’m not at all.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, as every eye focused on him once again, even Sherlock’s. This wasn’t about the truth, it was supposed to be a casual ruse, to convince Mark and Steve that they were married. None of it was meant to be earnest. But the words demanded to be said, despite the effort it took for him to get them out. “You saved me. Do you really not know?”

Sherlock’s eyes were locked on him. His face was a plastered expression of neutrality, but his eyes were deep and fathomless. They were communicating so many things at once that John managed to miss them all. “Of course I know,” Sherlock lied efficiently. “I just thought, this conversation might be a tad too personal for our guests.” His hands were fidgeting with the worn leather arm of his chair, and John couldn’t tell whether that was part of the act or not.

“Nonsense,” Mark tutted. “I think it’s quite romantic. Don’t you, darling?”

Steve was eyeing Sherlock in the dimly lit room. There was something about Steve’s quiet observations that made John uncomfortable. Especially when his keen eyes were fully focused on Sherlock.

With a sudden spark of courage, John decided it was time to take things a step further. He stood and took the two steps needed to reach Sherlock’s side. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Sherlock nearly jumped at John’s touch. Despite his visually calm exterior, John could now feel how tightly wound Sherlock was, just by rubbing his hand across his taught shoulders. “I only meant to tell the truth.” He leaned in and brushed his nose against Sherlock’s jaw line and up into his hair.

It was odd, the sensation of touching a man versus a woman. Women were so soft. Soft skin, soft curves, soft scent. Sherlock was angular, with a sharp jawline, and a deep musky scent. His hair was soft though, John noticed as he placed a kiss atop Sherlock’s head before pulling away. Soft, and smelling of comfort, and safety, and home. John was surprised by how reluctantly he wanted to pull away. But he kept his hand pressed along the broad expense of Sherlock’s back, rubbing small circles into his shoulder blades, hoping to help him unwind.

Sherlock looked up at John with that all too familiar, unreadable expression. John smiled at him, then decided to perch on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, his hand never leaving Sherlock’s back.

“How long before you two started dating?” Steve asked.

John was prepared to answer, but Sherlock beat him to it. “Fifteen months after we moved in together.”

His hand faltered on Sherlock’s back, before continuing it’s ministrations. Fifteen months was how long they had known each other before Sherlock decided to pitch himself off of the roof of Barts.

“That long?” Mark stifled a giggle.

He sat there and waited for it, waited for Sherlock to blame it on him, to call him an idiot, but instead he said, “yes—well, I was an idiot.”

John’s hand stilled again, this time along the base of Sherlock’s neck, cupping his nape. He listened intently as Sherlock continued.

“It took me awhile to figure it out. I had—actually never been interested in relationships before Christopher. I was a solitary creature. Alone. Then Christopher came along and changed everything. Destroyed all of my preconceived misconceptions. I hadn’t even realised how lonely I had been, how much I desired companionship, or how self-destructive I’d become, before meeting-" he paused, and John could tell it was because he had almost used John's real name.  "So you see,” Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes, “you saved me as well.”

John had forgotten how to breathe. His hand was buried in the nape of Sherlock’s neck, soft curls tickling his skin, as ocean deep eyes bore into his from below. He felt the knot of panic that had been building since Mark and Steve had walked in, begin to grow even larger within his chest, crushing his lungs. The urge to run from the room felt like a physical force, demanding his limbs to escape the emotionally charged moment. But he was terribly aware of their guests gazes, boring into the side of his face.

With as much courage as he could muster, he fought his instinct to turn away and instead leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. The moment his lips touched skin, he clamped his eyes shut and breathed in the comforting scent of Sherlock. He allowed it to ground him. Meanwhile his hand dug into the nape of Sherlock’s neck, holding him in place, wordlessly begging him not to move.

Sherlock didn’t move. Not even when John finally pulled away. He stayed in place, eyes open and seemingly blank.

John heaved air into his lungs while slapping his hands atop his thighs. He hoped to snap everyone out of the surprising seriousness of the moment. “I think we have some appetisers, right Love?”

Sherlock didn’t move.

“Right. I’ll go get the appetisers.” He really hoped there were appetisers. “More wine Mark?”

Mark looked a bit startled by John’s sudden enthusiasm, but took it in stride. “Yes, just a splash, thank you.”

John hoped up from the chair and headed for the kitchen, forcing himself not to move too quickly.

What the hell was happening? This was supposed be a game. It was supposed to be fun, like an episode of Saturday Night Live for Christ’s sake. He was supposed be attempting to make Sherlock laugh from discomfort, not sit in his chair, staring blankly into oblivion.

He thankfully found a plate of bruschetta, and grabbed it along with the wine. With a new surge of determination, he re-entered the sitting room.

Everyone was sitting around in silence, clearly still uncomfortable. John glanced at Sherlock as he placed the plate of the bruschetta on the coffee table. Sherlock was still staring off into the mid-distance, a crinkle of concentration etched between his brows. At this rate, John thought, he might actually beat Sherlock at this challenge.

“Thank you,” Mark murmured, as John refilled his glass.

“So,” John set the bottle down and retreated to his own chair. “Tell us about yourselves.”

They sat and talked as the sun set fully, shrouding the room in candle lit darkness.

Mark and Steve were college professors who had met at the University they both taught at. It was a charming story, and they each told it in turns. John watched them, studying their ease and comfort. He hoped that his and Sherlock’s own discomfort and awkwardness wasn’t giving anything away.

After they were finished telling their story, Sherlock finally returned from his mind-palace, or wherever it was that he had been, and suggested they start their dinner.

John stood, deciding it was time to actually start the game, and walked over to Sherlock. “Yes, Sean is a fantastic cook, aren’t you Love?” Then with one swift slap to Sherlock’s arse, he winked and walked off into the kitchen.

Sherlock joined him a few moments later, leaning into his ear while Mark and Steve sat themselves at the table. “What was that?” he demanded.

“That,” John grinned, “was me kick starting the game.” He grabbed the bread and salad. “We’re still playing aren’t we?” he whispered quiet enough so that their guests couldn’t hear.

He watched as Sherlock expression shifted into something dark and gleaming. “Yes. The game is still on.”

“Good.” John reached over, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, “may the best man win.” Then he headed off to the table and their seated guests.

“I’m famished, and this looks amazing!” Mark declared once they were all seated.

“It does doesn’t it.” John agreed in all honesty. It smelled amazing too.

They dug into the food, and all was silent for awhile because everyone was too busy eating. After awhile Steve spoke up. “You never finished your story. How did you two finally figure things out? That you were interested in something more than friendship that is.”

John swallowed down a forkful of mouth watering pasta. “Oh I always knew.”

“Really?” Sherlock honestly looked surprised.

“Of course. You knew that. Remember when I came on to you at Angelo’s and you turned me down?”

“I didn’t turn you down.”

“Yes you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, so saying you were flattered but married to your work, wasn’t a turn down?”

Sherlock blinked several times.

John smiled, but inwardly cringed. This entire evening had somehow gone tits up. Mixing their own story in with this new, based in truth, imaginary one, was getting incredibly confusing. It was beginning to dawn on him, how interchangeable their own story, with the married one, really was. How plausible. John pushed those thoughts hastily away. “Anyway, I was interested from the start. I mean, have you seen him?” He gestured at Sherlock’s from, seated across from him, with his fork.

Steve nodded, Mark giggled.

“On second thought,” John eyed the two men, “don’t look. I’m very possessive.”

Sherlock was seated across from him with his mouth hanging open like a gaping fish.

“Don’t look so shocked. You know how attractive you are. You use it as a weapon against me all the time.”

Sea glass eyes narrowed on John, no doubt concocting some sort of revenge.

“Your turn,” John grabbed another piece of bread, “when did you discover your feelings for me?”

“Attraction and feelings are not the same.” Sherlock clipped out. “My attraction to you was nearly immediate, especially once you’d shot a man for me.”

John froze, then looked to Mark and Steve. The two men seemed taken aback. He turned to Sherlock, levelling him with a silent threat.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Mark and Steve aren’t going to turn you in.” Sherlock took an aggressive bite of his pasta.

To John’s surprise Mark’s face looked happily amused. “He’s right. I love a good murder. I’d ask you for the juicy details if I thought you’d provide them, but you look uncomfortable with the idea.”

“Don’t make him uncomfortable,” Steve admonished his partner.

“I’m not uncomfort—“

“As I was saying,” Sherlock interrupted John’s protest. “I was attracted to you from the start but my feelings for you took longer to surface. Mostly, as I mentioned before, because I was convinced that love was a chemical defect.”

“Sounds about right.” John murmured, still miffed at Sherlock for interrupting him earlier.

“I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with Christopher. It happened slowly, over time. An acclimatisation of many moments, building upon one another until suddenly I was looking at him as he was doing something incredibly mundane like washing the dishes, and I just knew.”

The room had grown quiet. No one moved. John stared into Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock stared into his.

The knot of nervousness inside of John grew thicker and tighter.

Mark, blessedly, broke the silence. “What about you Chris, when did you know?”

John looked down at his dish of pasta, Sherlock’s gaze had become too intense, like looking into the sun. “I realised when he went away… On a business trip,” he improvised, “he was gone for a long time and I… That’s when I realised that I had loved him, for a long time in fact, I just hadn’t admitted it to myself until he was gone.”

Silence filled the room once more. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze never leaving his nearly empty bowl of pasta. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him though, boring a hole into the top of his head, but he refused to look up.

After awhile Steve pushed away from his plate, and announced, “that was a fantastic dinner. Thank you, for this.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock responded softly.

John stood to help clear the table, eyes resolutely downcast. He didn’t know what it was that he was avoiding. It was just a story, a made up story, that John had created. It may have sounded real, but it wasn’t. Sherlock hadn’t gone off on a business trip, he had faked his death. John may have believed at one point that he had been in love with Sherlock, but then John had met Mary. He had fallen in love with Mary, was about to propose to Mary, before Sherlock returned, acting as if he'd just come home from a lovely holiday. Everything had changed in the two years John had mourned Sherlock’s death. He’d buried any feelings he’d had for him and moved on. He was married to Mary now. That was the harsh reality.

He was busy stacking dishes into the sink when he felt someone standing behind him. John turned and nearly jumped at the sight of Mark. “I came to help,” Mark explained, as he held out his own stack of dishes.

John smiled to cover his discomfort. “Ta.” He started scrubbing the dishes while Mark handed them over. The sound of the water rushing, filled his ears.

Sherlock was talking to Steve on the opposite side of the room, near the record player. He wondered what they were discussing. “You’re doing well,” Mark commented quietly beside him.

“Uhhh, thanks.” John grabbed another dish and scrubbed it vigorously.

“I’m not talking about the dishes. I’m talking about your little ruse.”

John nearly dropped the dish into the soapy sink.

“It’s ok. Your secret is safe with me. I’m a huge fan of detective stories. I would never blow your cover.” Then he had the audacity to wink at John as he handed him another soiled dish.

He took it with numb hands, uncertain of what to say or do.

“You might want to go easy on him though,” Mark gestured towards Sherlock. “I think he’s actually in love with you.”

John broke out of his state of shock with an unrestrained scoff. “No. No, that’s not possible.”

Mark turned to face John fully, confusion etched upon his thin features. He had intelligent eyes that eerily reminded John of Mycroft’s. “Why do you say that?”

“Because,” John resumed his scrubbing. “He doesn’t feel things like that. You heard him, love is a chemical defect. He sees it as a human error.”

“My God,” Mark thrust another dish at him. “You’re either blind or terrified, and at this point, I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t a little of both.”

This time he really did drop the dish into the sink. It landed with a loud clank. John glanced at Sherlock who was still knee deep in conversation with Steve. “Excuse me?” He turned his full attention to Mark, hot water still running over his hands.

“Do you not see it? The way he looks at you? Or—“ he narrowed his eyes at John, “do you see it but pretend not to?”

John clenched his fists under the running water, and tried to even his breathing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he ground out, then picked up the fallen dish and returned to the task at hand.

“Of course you don’t,” Mark responded. John didn’t like him. He didn’t like his knowing gaze, or the way he said the words as if he knew John better than he knew himself.

As they continued to work in silence, John thought of what Mark had said. Was he right? Was John afraid? And what was he afraid of?

The answer came to him with surprising clarity. He was afraid of those two years.

Those two years spent alone, and mourning. Two years thinking of how he had failed Sherlock, how he had driven him to kill himself by not helping him. Two years wishing he had told Sherlock he had loved him, in a vain hope that he could have saved him. More than that, he was afraid of the way his heart had collapsed inside of his chest the moment Sherlock had returned. The way Sherlock had laughed and joked while John’s entire world fell apart before his eyes.

Sherlock had chosen to leave him. Had killed himself in front of him. Sherlock had’t contacted him in two years, and when he finally came back he treated it like some sick jest.

John couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t fall in love and have his heart torn to pieces like that again.

The only explanation that helped him through any of those memories was that Sherlock didn’t have emotions. He didn’t understand what he had done to John, because he wasn’t capable of love.

That’s the truth that John held onto when the memories of the past few years became to painful to bear.

Music drifted into the kitchen. Steve and Sherlock were bent over the record player, adjusting the volume. Steve stood and turned to Mark. “Come join us, you can finish the dishes later.”

Mark nodded at Steve, then turned and whispered to John, “I’m sorry if I upset you, I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s a fault of mine. I only wish others the same amount of happiness that my husband and I share. It pains me to see people lie to themselves, only because I lied to myself for so long.” He looked into John’s eyes earnestly, “and I don’t wish that sort of burden upon anyone. Be honest with yourself. The truth will set you free.” Then he turned and joined his husband in the sitting room.

John finished scrubbing the dishes a few moments later, just as a new song began to play.

“Oh!” Mark exclaimed. “It’s my favourite.”

Steve laughed at his husband’s enthusiasm but swept him up into his arms all the same.

John stood in the kitchen and watched them dance while Sherlock pushed the chairs and coffee table out of the way. Then, to John’s horror, Sherlock stood and moved to the kitchen, arm outstretched towards him. “May I?” he asked John.

His eyes wandered everywhere but at Sherlock. “I… I can’t dance remember?”

“Nonsense. I taught you how to dance. Remember?”

John remembered all too well. The ball of nerves residing in his chest was getting too large to handle. The need to flee was only getting stronger. He hadn’t had enough wine, he needed a drink. His hand reached out for the bottle but Sherlock intercepted it, placing John’s hand in his own, and tugging him towards the impromptu dance floor.

“Sherlock, I don’t want to dance,” he tried to mumble to him covertly, but Sherlock was already guiding John into the sitting room, and into his arms.

“Shhhh, it’s part of our cover, remember?” Sherlock whispered into his ear as he lead them into a slow dance, his arm around John’s waist, his right hand cradling John’s left close to their joined chests.

John looked up at Sherlock, “Mark figured it out.”

Sherlock looked unsurprised. “They’re smart men. But not dangerous. We can trust them.”

“If they already know,” because John highly suspected that Steve did as well, “then why are we still pretending?”

Sherlock was looking down at John with wide ardent eyes, as they swayed to the music. “Are we?”

John gasped. The knot of panic that had been building inside of him ever since the night had begun, was pressing against his heart now, making his pulse pound so quickly John thought everything might suddenly burst forth from his ribcage. Every messy emotion he had worked so hard to bury, suddenly out on display for all to see.

The darkness of the room, Sherlock’s warm hand on his waist, it reminded him of when Sherlock had taught him how to dance in the confines of 221B. John had insisted that they close the curtains, he didn’t want to chance anyone seeing them. He’d been on edge the entire time, convinced that Sherlock would figure it out, would deduce John’s hidden feelings. He had run away then too. After Sherlock had taught him how to dip. His face had been so close to John’s. The warmth of his breath fanning over his. Strong hands holding him up. But more than anything the depth of his eyes, the way they swam with emotions that John couldn’t allow himself to believe were there.

Sherlock’s eyes looked the same now. So soft, and warm, and filled with an emotion John refused to name, because he refused to believe Sherlock capable of feeling it. But it was there, right at the surface, staring him in the face. Love.

John’s chest constricted, he couldn’t catch his breath, his skin felt clammy and his head began to spin. “I have too…” he managed to get out, before rushing off to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him as he dragged in gasping breaths.

Too much. Everything felt too much, and all at once, and overwhelming. He sank to the ground and placed his head between his knees, and breathed.

 

_______________

 

 

Sherlock sat in the darkened sitting room alone, staring at the last lit candle as it flickered and burned.

The night had been vastly different than he had originally envisioned.

The candle wax had nearly all evaporated, but the flame fought it’s extinction, reaching up and out for oxygen, flickering violently.

Sherlock watched the dying flame, awaiting it’s demise.

He wasn’t sure if he could be more obvious about his feelings than he had been that night. He’d essentially told John that he was in love with him, and how he had fallen in love with him, and he had thought…

No, he knew. He knew John returned his feelings, but still he ran away. The only explanation Sherlock could come up with, the only reason John would run away from Sherlock’s feelings, was that he didn’t want anything to do with them.

John had made his choice. He wanted the wife and the kids and the house in the suburbs. And now that Mary had been revealed as an ex-assassin, John had the danger too.

John didn’t need Sherlock at all anymore. And clearly he didn’t want him.

No doubt, the only reason he was on this mission, to find Moriarty and destroy him, was to keep his wife and child safe.

So there it was. John had made his choice. He may have feelings for Sherlock, but he didn’t want to act on them, that was clear.

Sherlock sat. He sat and he watched the flame flicker. Once, twice, and then die.

Darkness enveloped him. And just like the dying flame, Sherlock decided it was time to stop fighting the inevitable, and just give up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link to the song John and Sherlock dance to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4IYFIUxFpU


	11. Victor Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stared across at Sherlock. At his steepled hands, and hard expression. John had an overwhelming sense of deja vu whilst looking at him. It was like looking at the Sherlock from their first year together. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed how much Sherlock had softened upon his return from the dead, until he found himself looking at the Sherlock sitting before him now. No one else would have noticed the difference, but to John, who felt he knew Sherlock better than anyone, the contrast was stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful readers! Thank you so much for all of your comments on the last chapter, it brought me more joy than you could ever know!
> 
> I forgot to note the song John and Sherlock danced to in the last chapter. Here it is if you'd like to check it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4IYFIUxFpU
> 
> I plan on making a playlist to go with this story, I'll post the link when it's ready. 
> 
> And now for the chapter!!!

 

“Hello?”

Mary’s voice sounded just as it always had, transporting him to a time when he had once loved her. That time was long gone now.

“Hello?” Mary repeated when John had taken too long to respond.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“John.” Her voice softened, and the loving tone of it made him flinch.

He hated this. He hated her false exterior, and his required lies. He wished he could simply tell her the truth and be over with it.

“How are things?” He asked lamely, while staring at the colours of the quilt on his bed, at the oranges and browns and yellows.

“Ready to pop, but other than that, just dandy.” There it was. The sarcastic tone and flippant attitude. John relaxed fractionally.

“Only a few more weeks, Love.” His stomach flipped at having to use the false endearment, an endearment he had oddly used with Sherlock the night before, minus the stomach flip. He pushed the realisation away.

“Will you be back in time for the birth?”

His hand traced over the quilt, plucking away at invisible lint. The early morning sun filtered into the room, casting odd shapes onto the wall. “I don’t know,” he answered simply.

Silence greeted him on the other end. He envisioned Mary going deathly still. “More important things going on there, than the birth of your own daughter?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed. “Yes. You know why I’m here.”

She sighed audibly. “To destroy Moriarty.”

“Yes.” He lifted his eyes to the window. Outside clouds were forming. It looked like it would rain.

“I just don’t understand.” She paused as if to consider her next words. “Why you’re needed. Surely Sherlock can do it himself. He’s done it before.”

His jaw clenched at the memory, and the way she was throwing it in his face. A flock of seagulls flew past. “I remember,” he stated as calmly as possible. “This mission is more dangerous,” he lied. He had no idea if it would be more dangerous or not. “I couldn’t let him do this alone.”

“But you can let me give birth by myself?” she snipped.

“You’re not in danger of dying.”

“You never know.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes John,” she patronised, “I’m threatening to kill myself in childbirth.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He took a deep breath. “I wish I could be there, I do. I just—“ He didn’t know how to finish.

“You just love him more.”

John physically reeled.

“Don’t act so surprised.”

He swallowed past the nervous lump in his throat as he searched hopelessly for something to say, some way to refute her. The words refused to come, despite his desperate attempt to find them.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

“I don’t—“ he finally managed to blurt out.

“I think we’ve both lied to each other enough, don’t you?” She paused, the sound of a door closing on her end rang through the line. “Take care of yourself John. Believe it or not, I do love you.”

His gaze returned to the window. The sun was trying to break through, but the clouds were too dark and overwhelming to allow any light through. “Yeah,” John ran a hand through his hair, relieved that the conversation was ending. “Will do. You… uh—“

“I’ll take care of the baby. I promise.”

John nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. Then the line went dead.

He looked down at the faded quilt, dropping the darkened mobile upon it. His lungs unfurled beneath his ribs, allowing him to finally breathe.

Time passed as he sat there, listening to the soft pattering of rain as it began to fall against the window pane.

The sound of voices drifted in from the sitting room, breaking his silent revere.

He stood, bones creaking, as he headed to the closed door of his room. After cracking it open he could hear the voices more clearly.

“You seem surprised to see me Sherlock.”

“I never thought I’d see you again, least of all here.”

“The world is funny like that.”

“Hilarious.”

A resounding chuckle sounded from the stranger. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that I have.”

John stayed where he was, listening from the darkened shadows of his room.

“Using aliases.” The sound of footsteps echoed along the floorboards. “Reminds you of the old days, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“Those were good times.” The stranger’s voice was English, posh, not as deeply pitched as Sherlock’s, but still well polished. “So, who has replaced me as your partner?”

John didn’t like the way the stranger said ‘partner’ as if he were implying something more.

“Don’t you have better things to do? More important business to attend to?”

“Sherlock, you wound me!” The stranger paused. “Didn’t you know you were always my favourite? Perhaps I want you back.”

John gripped the doorframe tightly. Who was this posh bloke, who knew Sherlock’s name? He slipped back into his room quietly and retrieved his gun from under the bed. After checking to make sure it was loaded, and that the safety was on, he slipped it into the back of his waistband, and emerged from the bedroom, prepared to protect. What he didn’t expect was Sherlock’s laughter.

“—and the look on his face.” The stranger was laughing too.

“And the sound he made,” Sherlock could barely catch his breath. “He sounded like a frightened mouse!”

“Please don’t hurt me!” the stranger mimicked.

John walked in on the two of them doubled over in laughter, then froze. The stranger was tall and thin and wearing a designer suit. If not for his lighter coloured hair, John would have thought he was seeing double, as if Sherlock had cloned himself. The stranger had the same grace to his movements, the same thin frame. The same long legs and toned muscles. Even the same curl to his hair, only it was a bit shorter than Sherlock’s and dark blonde with a tinge of ginger. They were both painfully handsome. Standing next to each other, they looked like some sort of spread in GQ magazine.

John reached for the back of the sofa and gripped it tightly before clearing his throat.

Two heads snapped up to meet John’s gaze. Sherlock visibly blanched at the sight of him, and John didn’t care to analyse what that meant.

“John—“ Sherlock began, but didn’t finish. He seemed uncharacteristically uncertain of what to say.

“John!” The stranger moved towards him, and it took every ounce of self control not to step away. “At last we meet. I’ve read your entire blog. Sherlock’s Bosworth, a pleasure to meet you.”

John stared at the outstretched hand, the long pale, well manicured fingers. He didn’t want to take his hand, something about him made John uncomfortable, but one look at Sherlock and his ‘please John just do it’ face, and he forced his hand forward. If his shake was abrasive and bone crushing, then the stranger didn’t seem to care, instead his face was plastered with an all too charming smile.

“I’m an old friend of Sherlock’s.” The stranger offered while still shaking John’s hand.

John dropped his hand. “I thought Sherlock didn’t have friends.” He looked to the man himself, who was standing farther back, nearly hiding behind his ‘old friend’.

“Well, I use the term ‘friend’ loosely. Don’t I dear?” The stranger tossed a glance back to Sherlock, who responded by looking down at the floor.

Meanwhile, John had to mentally force his hand from clenching, lest it fly into the face of the posh bastard standing before him. “Dear?” John ground out, because that word in particular had stood out to him above all the others.

The stranger looked back to John with that damnably charming smile still plastered onto his perfect face. “Oh, just a term of endearment. We used to call each other all sorts of things. You can call me Victor.” A blue eye winked at him, and John couldn’t stop his fist from clenching.

He stood there for a moment, fist clenching and unclenching, gun digging hotly into his back. “Sherlock, explain this,” he ordered, while never taking his eyes off of Victor.

Sherlock finally stepped forward. “This is Victor Trevor. My former partner.”

John’s head snapped to Sherlock. ‘Former partner?’ he asked silently, while trying to keep his breathing under control.

“Yes,” Victor stepped into the conversation, uninvited. “We used to work together with the MI6.”

Sherlock blanched again, and this time John had to look at the floor. He tried concentrating on his breathing but it wasn’t working well. His hand was now a permanent fist, clenched against his side.

“Victor, you need to leave. Come back later.” Sherlock’s voice was as hard as steel.

But Victor didn’t leave. Instead he said, “Did he not tell you?”

“Victor—“ Sherlock began again, his tone broking no argument.

“He didn’t did he? Why didn’t you tell him about us?”

John was still staring at the floor, at a very uninteresting floor board. So he didn’t see it, but he could hear Sherlock grab Victor and forcibly drag him away. Once Victor was removed, John felt as if he could suddenly breathe.

Their voices traveled towards the stairs and down to the bottom floor.

“Come again later,” Sherlock told him.

“When?”

“In a few hours.”

A long pause followed. “Fine. I’ll come by later. Don’t forget, I’m the best contact you have in this particular area.”

“I know.”

John listened to the sound of the door opening and closing, and then Sherlock’s footsteps ascending the stairs. They stood together in the silence for several steadying moments before John finally looked up at Sherlock and spoke. “Explain.”

The moment Sherlock caught John’s eye, he went from uncomfortable to casual, as if he were stepping into a second skin. He moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “You heard Victor. We were partners.”

John didn’t know what kind of game Sherlock was playing, but he didn’t like it.

“You worked for the MI6? Since when? I thought you hated working for your brother.”

“I do.” Sherlock poured himself a glass of water and put the bottle back in the fridge. “I had just graduated from Uni. I had no direction, no career. Believe it or not, I had once aspired to be like my brother.” Sherlock visibly shuddered at his own words. “He offered for me to work for him, and I practically jumped at the chance. Victor,” he sauntered into the living space, glass of water in hand, “was a friend from Uni. We met right before I graduated. He was always incredibly clever, and I asked my brother to hire him on as well. At the time my brother was all too happy to comply. He adored Victor, saw him as the responsible one, the one who would keep me in check.” He laughed fondly at the memory. “Little did he know that Victor was more reckless than I was.”

John waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. He seemed lost in thought, in memories of days gone by. But John wouldn’t settle for a summary, he wanted to know every detail. “Tell me everything Sherlock. I want to know all of it.”

Sherlock snapped out of his walk down memory lane, and glared at John. “Why?”

“Why?!” John stepped forward, fist still clenched. “You’ve kept this part of your life from me for years. And that’s—“ he backed down a bit, realising how he must sound. “That’s fine, I’m not your keeper. But if we’re going to be working with him,” he gestured to the stairway with a pointed finger, “then I need to know everything about him.”

“You won’t be working with him,” Sherlock stated flatly.

John gaped at him openly. “What?”

“I hate it when you make me repeat myself. You won’t be working with him.” He walked over to the armchair by the window and sat, setting his glass down and crossing his legs. “I will.”

He stared across at Sherlock. At his steepled hands, and hard expression. John had an overwhelming sense of deja vu whilst looking at him. It was like looking at the Sherlock from their first year together. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed how much Sherlock had softened upon his return from the dead, until he found himself looking at the Sherlock sitting before him now. No one else would have noticed the difference, but to John, who felt he knew Sherlock better than anyone, the contrast was stark.

This was Sherlock the machine. The one who had refused to check in on Mrs. Hudson when John had thought she’d been shot. Not the Sherlock who’d given a heartfelt speech at his wedding.

“Who is he Sherlock?” John threatened. “Why won’t you tell me?”

Sherlock lowered his steepled hands. His eyes were as hard as glass, as they cut into John. The early morning light made his pale skin appear as if it were made of marble. Everything about him appeared hard and unyielding. “Victor Trevor is none of your business.”

“Why?” Anger and frustration swelled inside of him. “Why won’t you tell me? I thought we were in this together.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, but didn’t answer.

A flailing rage pounded in his chest. “No,” he moved to Sherlock, finger pointed directly in his face. “You will not do this.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked drolly.

“This.” John gestured frantically at Sherlock’s entire form. “This thing— you do whenever you’re about to run off and do something dangerous without me.”

Silver eyes narrowed on him.

“I know you Sherlock. I may not be as observant as you, but we’ve been best mates for years and I’ve come to learn what this—“ he gestured once again to Sherlock, “means.”

“You’re wrong.”

John hesitated a moment at the utter conviction in Sherlock’s voice, but swiftly pushed the doubt aside. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” Sherlock insisted more aggressively.

“No.” John’s patience was growing incredibly thin. “I’m not.”

“Yes.” Sherlock stood, and now they were facing each other fully, Sherlock’s face only centimeters from John’s. “You’re wrong. You don’t know me at all.”

John stepped back. It would have hurt less had Sherlock slapped him in the face. “Don’t do this—“ he found himself saying, though he hadn’t given his mouth permission to utter such words. Useless as they were, because he couldn’t seem to finish his own sentence, though it had several different endings.

Don’t do this…

Don’t shut me out

Don’t push me away.

Don’t run off and get yourself killed.

Don’t leave me behind.

Don’t leave me.

Sherlock didn’t say a word. He didn’t even move, but his eyes were boring holes into what felt like John’s heart, and the sensation was overwhelmingly uncomfortable. John stepped back further, and put up his guard.

“Tell me. Now.” His voice sounded strangely desperate in his own ears, though he had meant for it to sound threatening. “Or so help me God—“

“You’ll call my brother?” Sherlock remarked. “By all means, go ahead.” He sat back in his chair with an air of boredom. “Tell him I said hello.”

John glared at Sherlock long and hard, a vast range of emotions running riot through his chest. Anger, and hurt, and fear. He wanted to make Sherlock feel every one of those same emotions, but it was no use, Sherlock was well ensconced behind his mask of ambivalence, his eyes no longer boring into John but looking off into nothingness. No doubt he was already holed up in his Mind Palace.

John found himself, once again, envying Sherlock’s ability to shut it all off.

“Fine.” He stormed off to his room and the mobile he’d left laying upon his bed.

He picked it up and searched for Mycroft’s number amongst the short list of contacts he had programmed in.

The phone rang once before picking up. “Hello?” Mycroft’s voice answered dryly.

“Tell me about Victor Trevor.”

There was a short pause. “Ah. I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Victor.”

“Not really a pleasure, just tell me who he is.” The low thrum of panic wouldn’t leave his system. There was something about Victor that unnerved John. He couldn’t explain it logically, it was only an instinct, but he had learned to trust his instincts during his time as a soldier.

“Sherlock didn’t tell you?”

He stamped down on the wave of anger that fact continued to inspire in him. “No.”

Mycroft sighed. “I can’t tell you who he is.”

“Bullocks.” John paced the length of his room, feeling like a caged animal. “He worked for you. You know who he is, so tell me.”

“All I can tell you, is that he’s your contact for the next mission. He’s the only one who can lead you to Moriarty’s informant.”

“Oh!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “You mean the mission your brother is insisting on going on alone? That mission?”

Silence followed. John continued to pace, hand once again clenching and unclenching at his side.

“You can’t let that happen, John.” Mycroft’s voice sounded deadly serious.

Another shot of panic ran through his veins. “Why?”

A long pause of silence followed. “It is imperative, that you go with Sherlock on this mission. Do not leave him alone with Victor.”

“Why?!” John demanded. He was tired of asking questions and getting no answers. “Is he dangerous?”

“Only to Sherlock,” Mycroft stated simply.

His stomach dropped out. “Mycroft, tell me—“

“I have to go. I’m trusting you John, to keep my brother safe.” Then the line went dead.

John growled as he threw his mobile onto the mattress. He paced across the room a few more times then stopped. He could still feel the cold metal of his gun pressed firmly against his back. He reached behind him and pulled it out. The weight of it in his hand felt comforting.

Protecting Sherlock. That was his job, what he was born to do. John was an expert at running after the madman and making sure he didn’t get himself killed. But this mission was different. This time the enemy was their ally, and Sherlock had some sort of close connection to him.

John’s insides coiled at the possible connections Victor had to Sherlock. He already knew they were ex-partners, possibly even friends. But what else had they been? Lovers? Sherlock claimed he was a virgin but he could have lied. Sherlock had lied to him before.

John pushed the thought away, convincing himself it didn’t matter. Mycroft had said Victor was dangerous to Sherlock, that was all that mattered. John had to make sure he was safe, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to push him away.

With an iron clad resolve, John tucked his gun into his waistband and stepped out of his room. Starting now, he wasn’t going to let Sherlock out of his sight.

Of course the moment he re-entered the sitting room, Sherlock was gone, and even after he searched every room he could not find him.

John cursed.


	12. Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took a deep breath as he smoothed out his borrowed suit jacket. He had no intention of allowing John to find out about this. His plan was to to get in and get out without any repercussions.
> 
> That was the plan, but reality was rarely so neat. Everything could possibly go to hell.

Sherlock folded and unfolded the piece of paper Victor had given him, within the confines of his trouser pocket. He walked up the steep incline of one street after another in search of the address scrawled messily upon the paper. The overcast morning was turning into a misty afternoon, casting the city in shadows of grey. He clenched his thin jacket over his frame to keep out the damp air, wishing he had his belstaff. He’d left it in London, and he missed it now, with a deep ache.

At last he arrived at his destination, a stately home in one of the richest areas of the city. Victor answered the door promptly, after two swift knocks.

“Sherlock.” His face erupted into a giant grin.

Sherlock didn’t return the sentiment.

Victor looked past him briefly. “No Dr. Watson?”

“No.” Sherlock snapped, then pushed past Victor and into the warm house uninvited.

Everything about the decor screamed Victor. Wood floors and expensive furniture, bookshelves filled with books, and worn leather chairs. It smelled like smoke, and expensive cologne, and brandy. It smelled just like Victor. A fire was lit in the fireplace, and Sherlock headed straight for it, reaching his numb hands out to touch it’s offered warmth.

“Drink?” Victor asked.

“No.” Sherlock rubbed his hands back and forth, while staring into the flames.

“Smoke?” Victor appeared at his side, a cigarette held out. Sherlock took it as well as the light Victor held out for him.

He didn’t like the way Victor was watching him with narrowed eyes. Sherlock always hated being on the receiving end of a deduction.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Sherlock ignored him, taking a deep drag from the cigarette instead.

“You didn’t tell John you were coming to see me?” Victor took a sip from the glass of brandy in his hand.

“I heard you the first time,” Sherlock bit out while flicking out ash into the fireplace.

Victor smirked, then sat in a nearby leather armchair. He crossed his long legs and continued to gaze up at Sherlock while taking another sip of Brandy. After a few moments of silence he said, “tell me about your relationship with the good Doctor.”

Sherlock glared at him. “None of your business.”

A vicious smile slowly bloomed upon Victor’s face. “That good, huh?”

“I’m here to meet Moriarty’s informant.” He refused to drop eye contact with Victor as silence fell upon them once again.

The annoying thing about Victor, was his exhausting habit of refusing to let a thing drop. It used to drive Sherlock mad. Victor often reminded him of a child when he got like this. Once he was hyper-focused on something, he wouldn’t let it go until he was fully sated.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched the moment he saw Victor’s face light up with an air of all too familiar mischief. “Oh my God.” He placed a hand over his mouth mid-gasp. “He’s fucking you!”

Sherlock ground his teeth and took another drag from his cigarette. He needed as much nicotine as he could get.

Victor continued to eye him speculatively. “Wait, no. No, you’re not getting laid or you wouldn’t be so tense.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He desperately wanted to leave, but he needed Victor to lead him to his next informant so they could finally move forward. The sooner the better.

“Trouble in paradise?” Victor’s blue eyes were gleaming with reflective fire. He traced the lip of his glass with one long finger, never lifting his gaze from Sherlock. “Did you two break up?”

He was growing excessively tired of the conversation. As much as it pained him, he knew he had to give Victor something, or he’d never stop. “John and I are not romantically or sexually involved. We never have been, nor ever will be. He’s married and expecting a child. Now, if we could please discuss the informant—“

Victor broke out into laughter. Sherlock paused.

The laughter grew until tears were forming along the edges of Victor’s eyes. Sherlock stood and watched him, unable to fathom what he had found so humorous.

“Christ,” Victor finally managed to gasp out between bursts of laughter. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Sherlock was growing anxious.

Victor finally gathered himself enough to declare, “you’re in love!”

He fought to remain unmoved under Victor’s mirthful scrutiny.

“Oh God,” Victor wiped at his eyes, then sat back in the buttery brown of his chair. “I never thought that you, of all people, would fall in love.” He took a long pull from his drink, the amber liquid glinted in the reflection of the fireplace. After swallowing, Victor rested his glass on the arm of the chair and smiled up at him. “Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

Sherlock inhaled another lungful of thick smoke. “As amusing as this conversation is, I didn’t come here to discuss my personal life.”

“Or lack there-of.” Victor winked.

Sherlock growled. “Enough!”

Victor giggled.

He wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t find the motivation. Victor had always been too joyfully immature for admonishment. It had been why his parents had allowed him to get away with anything. Frustration was the usual emotion Victor inspired in people. “You’re such a child,” Sherlock muttered while flicking more ash into the fireplace.

Victor snorted. “Pot meet kettle.”

Sherlock chuckled despite himself. Images of how they had frequently driven Mycroft absolutely nutters, played across his memory. “Touché.”

“Let me say just one last thing—“

“Victor,” Sherlock warned. He was absolutely finished with the subject.

“Just one more thing. I promise.” He paused a moment, prepared for Sherlock to refuse, but Sherlock had long ago given up on refusing Victor anything.

He took a moment to level Sherlock with sobered seriousness. At last he stated, “he loves you too.”

Sherlock paused, then exhaled a lungful of smoke. The grey trail of it lifted up to the high ceilings and disappeared. “It doesn’t matter. He’s chosen what he wants. The wife, the kids, the house in the suburbs. Besides,” he prayed his feigned disinterest sounded genuine, though he doubted it, Victor was almost as astute as he was, “he’s better off without me.”

“Right,” Victor responded with an abundance of disbelief. He seemed to brush aside the subject, as if the conversation was becoming far too serious for his taste. “Although…” he couldn’t, however, manage to move past the subject entirely. “If I had known your type was short and rugged, I would have given up on my advances far sooner than I did.”

Sherlock’s expression warmed. “You never stood a chance.”

Victor laughed, and stood. He walked over to Sherlock and patted him on the shoulder. “I missed you.”

He wished he could repay the sentiment, but he still remembered with clarity, where Victor’s recklessness had gotten them. Sherlock still wrestled with those demons. It was the entire reason Mycroft had relocated Victor, as far away from Sherlock as possible. And yet, here they were. Together again, after all these years.

He cleared his throat. “The informant?” he reminded Victor.

Victor looked down at his feet, and shuffled his designer shoes. He was afraid, Sherlock surmised. That didn’t bode well, Victor was rarely afraid of anything.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Victor looked up at him from beneath thick lashes.

Sherlock had expected this, had already deduced what was in store. After all, his brother had arranged for Victor to be his liaison, despite previously banishing Victor from his life. There was only one reason Mycroft had arranged for contact between them now.

“Yes, I’m positive.” Sherlock confirmed without hesitation. He compartmentalised his apprehension, and shoved it as far down as humanly possible.

For the millionth time, he wished he wasn’t human.

Victor nodded, then looked him up and down. “You’re going to need a nicer suit. You can borrow one of mine, you’re only a couple of inches shorter than me.”

Sherlock smirked. “You still enjoy pointing that out don’t you?”

“Enormously.” He erupted into a gigantic grin, then led Sherlock through the sitting room and to the stairs.

 

_______________

 

It was growing dark by the time they made their way through San Francisco’s crowded streets in Victor’s BMW. They sat in silence, ensconced in warm leather seats, while the radio thrummed through the speakers. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee as he looked out at the indigo skies; it was a beautiful, something John would love, he thought fondly.

John.

There was a twist in the pit of his stomach at the thought of him. Sherlock knew John would be angry, for shutting him out, for abandoning him, but it was imperative that John wasn’t involved in this. For his own safety, as well as what he would have done had he known what Sherlock was about to do…

The sound of the road hummed and the buildings blurred past. After awhile they reached the ocean and Sherlock leaned forward in his seat to get a better look. The thought of John rang through his veins at the sight of the deep blue rolling waves. He wanted to bring John here, to watch the sun setting over the azure horizon, to breath in the salty air, and feel the ocean breeze spray across their skin.

The car turned sharply, dragging him away from the view of the sea. Darkness enveloped them as the sun finally set, wrapping around them like a heavy cloak. The car slowed as they pulled into the drive of an imposing Victorian manor.

Victor shifted the gear into ‘park’ and applied the break. The engined hummed as they sat motionless in the darkened driveway.

“His name is Kyle Montgomery. He’s been one of the country’s top drug dealers for fifteen years or more.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat to look at Victor. “You still use.” It was a statement, not a question.

Victor didn’t look at him, but continued to stare forward into the night. “Occasionally,” he shrugged. “Not all of us had someone in our lives who cared enough to throw us in rehab.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the reference. Mycroft had forced Sherlock into rehab when he had almost overdosed, then he ripped Victor from his life. Victor, who had be the one to introduce him to drugs in the first place.

His gaze shifted away from Victor as his eyes slipped closed. The sound of the ocean crashed inside of his mind palace, as he pictured himself standing shoulder to shoulder with John, bare feet in the sand. “We all have our vices.”

Victor’s gaze bore into the side of his face. “True,” he agreed simply.

They both knew who Sherlock was thinking of in that moment. He allowed the image of him and John standing at the water’s edge to linger before opening his eyes.

Victor turned off the engine.

Sherlock’s heart began to pound as they exited the car and headed up the path to a well lit wrap around porch, leading to an impressively large mahogany door.

He took a deep breath as he smoothed out his borrowed suit jacket. He had no intention of allowing John to find out about this. His plan was to to get in and get out without any repercussions.

That was the plan, but reality was rarely so neat. Everything could possibly go to hell.

He straightened his spine and braced himself for every possible outcome as Victor reached forward and pressed the doorbell.

 

_______________

 

John was crawling out of his skin.

The day had dragged, then the sun had set, and still there was no sign of Sherlock.

He had called Mycroft, but Mycroft had been no help. He had looked through the phone book for Victor, but couldn’t find him because nobody ever used the ruddy things anymore. He even googled Victor’s name, but nothing pertaining to the person he had seen earlier popped up.

Then John had paced, and fumed, and nearly thrown the godforsaken computer (useless piece of junk that couldn’t help him find Sherlock) out the window.

Victor was dangerous, Mycroft had said. Do not leave Sherlock alone with him. John had done a lot of cursing, mostly at Sherlock, but also at himself for leaving Sherlock alone for even a minute. He should have known better by now.

As the sun began to set, he picked up the phone and called local hospitals, to see if anyone matching Sherlock’s description had been admitted to the A&E (or ER as American’s called it). To his relief, and despair, nobody had seen him.

It was useless. He was in a foreign city, without transportation, and no bloody clue as to where Sherlock could possibly be.

He sat in darkness, his head cradled in his hands, and prayed to a God he was fairly certain wasn’t even there, that Sherlock was alright. He felt worn to the bone, despite the fact that he had done nothing all day but sit around the flat and worry endlessly about the trouble Sherlock was undoubtedly getting himself into.

A shaky breath left his lungs as he sat back in the sofa and stared up at the darkened ceiling. He shouldn’t feel betrayed, or abandoned, but he did. This was typical Sherlock behaviour after all. Just his usual fair, nothing personal.

Hell, John had done it himself in Germany. He’d gone off and taken care of Andrew Turner without stopping to consult Sherlock.

Quid pro quo. An eye for an eye.

But Sherlock had said, after John had returned from dealing with Turner, that they would do everything together from now on, that it was them against the rest of the world.

John exhaled another shaky breath. Perhaps it wasn’t them against the rest of the world after all. Perhaps their partnership, their friendship even, was just an illusion. Even after all this time, Sherlock still preferred to work alone. John didn’t blame him, he had ruined every one of their missions thus far. Perhaps it was best for Sherlock to work alone. John was nothing but dead weight. No wonder Sherlock had left him behind for two years.

A flutter of panic thrummed through his chest at the thought of Sherlock leaving him behind, for good. What if Sherlock decided that he never needed John again? What if he just walked away and never looked back?

He tried to breathe, but the air suddenly felt thin. His hand started to shake as a dull ache ran up his leg. Shit, no, not this. Not this imagined pain. He gripped his leg and willed the pain to recede.

He was in the middle of a full on panic attack at the very thought of his psychosomatic limp returning, when a loud knock resounded from the bottom floor.

John froze, all thought of his leg forgotten. The knock sounded again. He stood and headed for the stairs, just as Mark’s voice rose from below.

“Coming!” Mark called out, as the sound of his footsteps grew louder.

John stood at the stop of the stairs, unmoving. It might just be someone here to see Mark, or Steve, he thought. It might have nothing to do with Sherlock. Still, he stood and listened, hoping against hope that it was something to do with Sherlock.

The door opened. Mark gasped. “My God.”

John was moving at top speed down the stairs before his brain even had time to catch up with his body. Something inside of him told him that it was Sherlock.

It was.

Standing in the entrance of the door, in the shadows of the porch lamp, were two figures. Victor’s face was bloody and bruised, and draped against his side hung a completely unconscious, and deathly pale Sherlock Holmes.


	13. Iterlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Here is a bonus chapter for you, from our favorite consulting criminal.

He ran a thin boned finger lovingly over the worn typed letters… words written with faded black ink, on yellowed paper… words he had read over a thousand times, and still, the contents had never grown stale. A thrill ran through his veins every time he pored over the documents. He currently sat in the darkness, whispering the words aloud, though there was no one there to hear them.

It had been decades since he had killed Carl Powers, in the hopes of attracting some sort of attention, and yet he had never anticipated the kind of attention he had gotten.

Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, he had been lucky, oh so lucky to have attracted his attention.

Once he had finished reading, he closed the case file, laid it in his lap, and breathed in deeply. He had only been a boy then, and it had been an inelegant murder compared to his more recent endeavors, but he was oddly proud of it. If for nothing more than the fact that it had led Sherlock to him.

Sherlock had been so deliciously perfect, so clever and odd. It was like looking into a mirror. The blessed relief Moriarty had felt when he had found him had sent his careening mind to momentary rest. And yet, he didn’t want to spoil his miraculous discovery by revealing himself, so he had refrained. He had remained shadowed in darkness. He had become a myth and a legend to Sherlock. The memory of it made him smile.

All the while, Moriarty had watched Sherlock from afar. He had kept tabs on him in the news, spied on him from the shadows, followed every one of his developments. Sherlock had grown into a fine specimen, and yet there was one essential flaw… Sentiment. Sherlock was overly sentimental.

Oh, Sherlock was a fabulous actor, he was very good at pretending not to feel. He had even managed to convince Moriarty a time or two, but it was all an act. He had known of Sherlock’s weakness, with unfailing certainty, the moment he had watched Sherlock cry over his damned dog. A dog! It was painfully ordinary, and immensely disappointing.

That same little boy who had cried over his dog still lived inside of Sherlock, and now he had a new pet: John Watson. It was disgusting.

He has deduced Sherlock’s attachment to the good doctor the moment he’d introduced himself as Jim at St. Barts. It had seeped from Sherlock’s skin like poison. Moriarty had nearly vomited from the banal humanity of it all the moment after he’d left the lab. After the nausea had died down, he had been left with nothing but seething anger, anger that such a brilliant mind was being wasted on such sentimentality.

It had made him want to give up, to end it all right then and there. What was the point of life if everyone in it was hardwired with such predictable behavior?

But he hadn’t ended his life, instead he had devised a plan, a plan to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes once and for all…

…A plan that had started with a military doctor bundled up in a bomb jacket, and would end in just a few short weeks.

His phone dinged, tearing him away from his thoughts. He swiped at the screen, filling the shrouded darkness of his room with an eerie glow. A wicked smile erupted on his face the moment he saw the image that had been sent.

It was a picture of Sherlock unconscious and as white as a sheet.

 _Yes_ , Moriarty hummed with pleasure, his plan was going splendidly. He put his phone aside, and ran his fingertips over the indentation of letters typed upon the front of the thick manilla folder that was sitting in his lap.

Sherlock Holmes, the letters read. _Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes_. He continued to stroke the letters, over and over again, as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. A wave of euphoria washed through his veins.

Soon, he thought. Soon. The smile never left his face.


	14. If You Died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t real, he thought, he had to be dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for trigger warning.

 

Mark moved first. He stepped forward to take Sherlock’s limp arm and hauled it over the back of his shoulders, sharing the weight of the lanky detective with Victor.

John stood in the darkened doorway, unblinking.

“Dr. Watson?” Victor’s voice snapped him back to reality and away from the horrors of Sherlock’s possible death.

His eyes locked with Victor’s. Victor who had one bruised eye he could barely see out of due to swelling, was silently pleading with John to do something. “What happened?” John demanded.

Victor flinched, undoubtedly knowing his words would anger John. “Overdose,” he murmured like a young boy confessing such things to his father.

John clenched his fist, prepared to punch Victor in the face, despite the fact that it looked as if he had already been punched repeatedly. “How?” John ground out.

“The informant,” Victor explained hurriedly, “is one of the most powerful drug lords in the country. We went to see him, for information. Our cover was that we were buying drugs from him, but he wouldn’t let us buy them until we tried them. We were told it was just cocaine, a small dose, but it turned out to be a very strong dose of heroin. I don’t think Sherlock’s ever had heroin before.”

Victor was jumpy, talking hurriedly, and it was hard to see his pupils in the dim light but John had a strong suspicion. “Yours was cocaine.”

“Yes.”

John dug his finger nails into the palm of his hand. “So they were targeting Sherlock?”

Victor nodded quickly, “I think so, yeah. I… I had to fight our way out of there.” he swallowed thickly, shifting the weight of Sherlock against him, “I thought we could trust them.”

“You thought wrong.” John snapped out at Victor, then shifted his focus to Sherlock, who was breathing shallowly, head lolling to one side. John reached out a hand to cup Sherlock’s face and guide it forward. It was hard to see in just the light of the porch lamp but his mouth looked slightly bluish and dry. “Sherlock,” he moved his fingers to Sherlock’s pulse point, measuring the slow steady beat. Nearly too slow, John thought. “Sherlock,” he ordered again, “wake up.” He ran his thumb along one of those ridiculously sharp cheekbones.

To his utter relief, Sherlock groaned. “You need to stay awake,” John told him firmly. He lifted his other hand to hold Sherlock’s entire face in his grip. “Sherlock, look at me.” Sherlock groaned again, but this time opened his eyes just a crack. “Good,” John praised him, then pulled Sherlock’s eye open even further with the pad of his thumb. Sherlock grumbled as John inspected his pin-pricked pupil.

He allowed his hand to linger on Sherlock’s face before stepping back. “Bring him upstairs,” he ordered Victor and Mark, “and keep him awake, don’t let him fall asleep again.”

Then he leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time, as he headed for his bedroom to fetch his medical kit. When he reemerged from his room, Mark and Victor, with Sherlock sandwiched in-between, were just entering the sitting room. “Place him on the couch, sitting up, not lying down,” John instructed.

He set his medical bag onto the coffee table, then headed to the kitchen to fetch a large glass of water.

“Shouldn’t you take him to the Hospital?” Mark’s voice interrupted John’s focused protocol.

Mark… He suddenly paused. Mark who now knew their real names and that Sherlock had overdosed on drugs while trying to meet an informant. Great. He should have ordered him away, but all he could think of was having an extra pair of hands to help. “No,” he responded while taking the full glass of water over to Sherlock, “this isn’t a lethal overdose, I can handle it.”

He brushed the thought of Mark aside momentarily, while he sat on the coffee table, directly in front of Sherlock’s semi-unconscious form. “Turn on a light,” he directed at Victor who was closest to the lamp. The room suddenly filled with a soft yellow glow. Sherlock groaned. John grabbed his face again. “Drink this,” he ordered.

Sherlock tried to move his head away from the glass of water but John’s grip was much stronger than Sherlock’s weak efforts at avoidance.

“You need to flush the drug out,” John explained to him, while trying to hold his head in place with one hand, and balancing the glass of water in the other. Sherlock moved his head away sharply, causing John to nearly spill the contents of the glass all over himself. “Sherlock,” he warned, “you need to drink the water or I swear to God I’ll take you to the hospital. Now open your mouth and drink.”

Sherlock obeyed immediately, gulping the water down like a man who’d spend a week in the desert. When the glass was empty, John handed it to Mark and ordered him to re-fill it. He pulled out his blood pressure cuff and began to work.

The room fell into hushed silence, save for the distant sound of the tap as Mark filled the glass of water in the kitchenette. Victor inched his way over to John’s shoulder and asked, “is he ok?”

John didn’t answer until he had finished counting Sherlock’s heartbeats, which felt like they had grown stronger since he had first arrived. “His blood pressure and heart rate are still low, but nothing serious enough to warrant a trip to the A&E. As long as he drinks plenty of water, he should be fine.” Just then Mark passed him the re-filled glass of water.

“Sherlock,” John prompted. Sherlock responded by opening his eyes and grumbling at the light. John smiled softly. “Time for more water.” He lifted the glass to Sherlock lips, and Sherlock drank it, though not as quickly as the time before. When they had emptied the glass, John handed it back to Mark who headed directly to the faucet. “Six more glasses to go,” he patted Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock groaned loudly and rolled his head back.

“Serves you right for taking drugs,” John stated sharply.

Sherlock huffed, rolled his head to the side and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘dull’.

“Excuse me?” Relief flooded John that Sherlock was coherent enough to talk at all, rude comment not withstanding.

“I said,” Sherlock took in a great big gulp of air, clearly concentrating on making his words legible. “Dull.”

“That’s what I thought.” John took the glass of water Mark offered him, and immediately shoved it into Sherlock’s face, forcing him to drink. Once Sherlock had finished the water, John handed the glass back to Mark while glaring at Sherlock. “What, may I ask, is so incredibly dull about overdosing and nearly getting yourself killed?”

Sherlock chuckled.

John clenched his fists.

“You’re so predictable,” Sherlock murmured, while attempting to curl up on his side in a little ball.

“No you don’t.” John grabbed Sherlock arm, rather harshly, and yanked him back up into a sitting position.

“Let me sleep!” Sherlock bellowed, so loudly, Mark nearly spilled the glass of water he was carrying over to John.

“You can’t!” John yelled back.

“Why not?” Sherlock winged like a toddler.

“Because, I can’t have you slipping into a coma and dying you great git. Now drink your damn water!” He took the glass from Mark with such violence, some of the water sloshed out and got on his trousers.

Sherlock shook his head back and forth so quickly it was a shock he didn’t give himself whiplash. “No, I will not drink another drop of water.”

“Too bad.” John stood and grabbed Sherlock’s nose with his fingers and thumb and clamped down so hard the pale skin of Sherlock’s nose turned pink. Sherlock gasped in shock and that’s when John poured the water down his throat.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was worse than a baby, and refused to swallow it, instead he spluttered it out all over himself, and John, and Mark’s sofa.

“Look what you did.” John admonished while flinging excess water from his hand.

“It’s your fault!” Sherlock countered. “You nearly drown me!”

John ground his teeth and tried not to listen to the part of his brain that wanted to throttle the over-grown child seated before him.

“Boys.” Mark’s even toned voice broke through the chaos. “As amusing as this is… It’s rather late and Steve has an early class to teach in the morning. So, if you could keep it down, I would appreciate it.”

John’s anger deflated at once. “Yeah… Yes. Of course. Sorry.”

Sherlock on the other hand, while silent, continued to visibly pout.

The room quieted. Victor sat in a nearby armchair, watching from the shadows. John had nearly forgotten he was there, till he decided to pace the room a few times to cool off.

When he’d sufficiently calmed down, he stopped his pacing and turned to look at Sherlock, who was gazing up at him with drowsy eyes. “Why do you even care?” Sherlock asked him.

John tilted his head, trying to make sense of the question. “What?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. His body was resting limply against the back of the couch but his gaze was sharp. Several moments passed between them, as they remained unmoving and silent, merely watching one another from across the room.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock blinked slowly, licked his dry lips and said softly, “why do you even care whether I live or die?”

John froze. Tension filled the room like thick hot humidity as Sherlock and John continued to stare at one another as if there was no one else in the world that mattered.

Every muscle in John’s body tensed as the aftershock of Sherlock’s words hit him squarely in the chest. Of all the questions, in all the world…

Two years. Two years of grieving the man sitting before him, the man who had the audacity to ask him such a cruel question…

Anger flowed through his veins, traveling through him slowly, until every inch of him felt white hot with rage.

Somewhere in the distance the tap was dripping.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

“Out.” John nearly whispered.

Mark’s gaze traveled from John to Sherlock and back again. “You want us to leave?” He gestured to himself and Victor questioningly.

John jerked his head once in affirmation. “Out.” John repeated, because there was no space left inside of him to make kindly requests.

Mark nodded, as if he understood everything. Perhaps he did. “Let me know if you need anything.” Then he headed for the stairs, the sound of his footsteps growing dim.

John could still feel Victor’s eyes boring holes into his back. He tore his gaze from Sherlock and turned to Victor who, just as he thought, was staring at John intently.

“Out!” John ordered him directly.

Victor didn’t move. “No.”

John didn’t stop to think, didn’t even hesitate. He walked over to Victor, grabbed his arm and physically dragged him out of his chair.

“What the hell?” Victor protested.

“I think I made myself quite clear.” John managed to get Victor to the edge of the stairs, while mustering just enough self control not to push him down them.

“I’m not leaving,” Victor persisted in that annoyingly posh accent of his. “I brought Sherlock here, and I’m going to stay until I know he’s alright. He’s my friend.”

John clenched his jaw.

“You weren’t even there when he overdosed the first time. Just let me—“

John punched him.

Victor flew back, nearly falling down the flight of stairs. Once he’d recovered from the shock, Victor dabbed at his nose delicately, blood came away on his fingers. It matched nicely with his black eye, John thought.

Victor looked up from the blood on his fingers and directly at John. “What the fucking hell was that for?”

“That,” John pointed at his nose, “is for getting Sherlock involved in drugs in the first place.” He watched as Victor’s expression transformed from indignant to shocked. “Yeah, I figured that one out all on my own. I’m not as dull as you and Sherlock seem to think.” Then he reached out and grabbed Victor by the shirt collar. “Now get the hell out of here.” He moved his face forward, so that he was looking deeply into Victor’s pale blue eyes. “Before I punch you again.”

Victor lifted his hands up in submission. John released his grip on Victor’s shirt collar and watched with satisfaction as he scrambled away.

But before he turned to leave, Victor hesitated, and with shocking sincerity said, “take care of him.” Then he was off, down the stairs and into the night.

John stood, waiting for something to ground him, to make him feel as if he wasn’t one heartbeat away from exploding.

He stood there and breathed, hands on his hips, head down, eyes closed. There was a deep throbbing ache inside of his chest, buried beneath all the anger.

How could Sherlock not possibly know? Was he that unfeeling, that he could not see how deeply his death had affected John the first time? Was he so ignorant of human emotions that he could not comprehend the depth of love John felt for him?

That had to be it, Sherlock didn’t have emotions, therefore he couldn’t possibly understand John’s.

The ache in John’s chest grew larger. It hurt to breathe.

No amount of wrath, no railing, or yelling could make Sherlock understand John’s feelings. He would never understand the depth of John’s affection…

John’s anger died.

Outside it had begun to rain, a soft, rhythmic patter of water beat against the windows. John took a deep breath and lifted his head. He walked back to the sitting room, grabbed the discarded glass and went to the kitchen to fill it. He could feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze following his every move.

He purposefully avoided Sherlock’s sharp gaze as he sat upon the coffee table in front of Sherlock and urged him to drink the glass of water.

Sherlock took the glass without protesting, and swallowed the water down in one long pull. When he finished Sherlock handed the glass to John, their fingers brushing in the exchange.

John looked down at his feet, telling himself to get up and go to the sink, but he couldn’t seem to move, he felt too heavy to stand. He set the glass down on the table.

The rain grew louder, filling the room with a cacophony of pattering.

John’s chest still ached dully as he heaved out a shaking breath. He felt fully defeated. How could he ever get Sherlock to stop running off, and possibly getting himself killed, if he could never understand the importance of his life to John? John lifted his hand and rubbed his hand over his weary eyes, ordering himself not to get emotional at the depth of helplessness he felt.

A warmth fluttered over his skin like the brush of a hand. It took two breaths before John realised that it was a hand, Sherlock’s hand, holding his wrist lightly. He moved his other hand away from his eyes and allowed his gaze to travel down to Sherlock’s hand circling his wrist.

John watched, frozen, as Sherlock’s long fingertips brushed lightly over the delicate skin of John’s inner wrist. John tried to stifle the gooseflesh that broke out across his skin, but Sherlock’s tender touch was too much for him, he couldn’t stop the effect it was having on him. He couldn’t hide it.

Sherlock continued to brush his skin delicately, as if he were an archeologist and John was the most precious discovery he had ever made.

The sound of rain continued to fill the room. Soft, rhythmic, and full.

After several moments John finally managed to drag his eyes away from the impossibility of Sherlock’s touch, to look up at the man himself.

Sherlock was looking at him intently. The crease, John had grown to love, sat deeply between his eyes, like a valley. John wanted to reach out and smooth it away, but he still couldn’t move.

They stared at one another in the stillness of the room, while the rain outside grew even louder, pounding against the roof.

John swallowed thickly, finally managing to utter, “if you died—“ but he couldn’t finish the sentence. There were no words sufficient enough to finish that sentence. He could only pray that Sherlock was clever enough to understand what John was trying to say, even if he could never fully understand the sentiment behind John’s unspoken words.

How many times would John have to mourn Sherlock’s lack of sentiment? The thought made his aching heart crack.

Just as he was about to stand and leave the room—because he was loosing any grasp he had on his emotions, and because Sherlock’s gaze felt like a physical weight upon him, threatening to suffocate him under it’s pressure—something happened.

Sherlock started to lean forward.

John started at him, uncomprehending, unbelieving. He watched Sherlock, as if in slow motion, lean in towards him.

The rain continued to pound down upon the roof, like thunder itself, but the deafening sound of it wasn’t enough to drown out the desperate beating of John’s heart. His heart was beating so violently, John thought it would break through his ribcage, as he remained frozen in place, watching distantly as Sherlock continued to move forward.

Just when John thought Sherlock’s face couldn’t be any closer, Sherlock paused, his warm breath fanning over John’s skin, only milliseconds away from touching.

John closed his eyes, but opened them immediately, still unsure of what Sherlock was planning on doing, but not wanting to miss it.

Their eyes remained locked, still and unmoving, till Sherlock’s gazed shifted briefly to John’s lips and up again.

John’s heart thudded to a stop.

Oh God…

Sherlock’s eyes were a dark deep blue as he bit his bottom lip, the gesture so painfully human, it made John’s heart swell with hope.

John’s wrist was still ensconced in Sherlock’s tender grasp, and he felt the touch keenly, as if it were the only thing keeping him from floating away…

He watched, mesmerised, as Sherlock’s eye’s shifted with… something. John was convinced Sherlock had talked himself out of it, but then he was moving forward again, and the knowledge that Sherlock was about to do this… That he was about to kiss him…

It terrified him.

The sound of the rain was like a physical presence in the room, surrounding them like a thick blanket, isolating them for the rest of the world as Sherlock closed the final gap between their lips.

John’s eyes slid shut as Sherlock’s lips pressed against his for the first time.

This wasn’t real, he thought, he had to be dreaming.

But Sherlock’s mouth was too soft, and dry and warm to be imagined.

This was real. Sherlock was kissing him.

A whimper escaped John's lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains mild drug overdose symptoms, if that bothers you then scroll down to when Mark leaves the room, you won't want to miss what happens after that.
> 
> I'm not a drug expert at all, all knowledge was gained from the internet, feel free to let me know if anything is glaringly wrong. Obviously I took some artistic license for the sake of the story. Sherlock probably had to piss after so many glasses of water, and John would have given a Sherlock a laxative to get the drugs out even faster, but these are things I didn't want to mention for obvious reasons. The story isn't meant to take place in the loo. ;-)
> 
> I hope you're enjoying the story, thank you for all your wonderful support and comments! xo


	15. The Rain Stopped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside, the rain stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an early little present for you, my wonderful readers. Next week's chapter will be up a little early too. xo

This was happening. This was finally happening, Sherlock thought.

John’s lips were touching his, and it was… indescribable.

It had been ages since Sherlock had kissed anyone, and ages before that since he had kissed anyone without the influence of drugs, and he had never loved anyone that he had ever kissed before. Loving someone made a difference, Sherlock realised, loving someone made the experience enjoyable. He thought he hated kissing, but this…

This was…

His first kiss had been when he was ten, with a boy named Jeffery. Jeffery had been small and golden and Sherlock had caught him behind the bleachers at the rugby pitch after practice. Sherlock hadn’t really known him, but Jeffery had stood up for him once to a group of kids who’d been teasing Sherlock at school, and after several days of watching him from a distance, Sherlock had decided that he wanted to kiss him. He’d only managed to press their lips together for a fraction of a second before Jeffery had torn himself away and punched Sherlock in the face. All Sherlock could clearly remember from the incident, was how the ache in his chest had hurt far more than his nose had.

But this wasn’t Jeffery, or a few faceless strangers at a club in soho. This was John, his John, and Sherlock had been waiting days, months, years for this moment.

It took an excruciatingly long time for Sherlock to realise that their lips were touching but neither of them were moving.

A shot of panic ran through him. Why wasn’t John moving? Was he waiting for Sherlock to move? What if John didn’t want this? John had whimpered hadn’t he? Or was it him who had whimpered? He didn’t know. His brain was heroin addled, moving painfully slow, as slow as molasses.

Dammit! Think!

Just then, as if in slow motion, John moved his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock’s brain responded with a resounding, _Yes! Good idea. Touch. Touch is good_.

He was just beginning negotiations with his body to move as well, to lift his hands to John’s face, and angle his head to the side so he could deepen the kiss, so he could start to explore John’s mouth in order to get a better taste, when all of the sudden he was being pushed away.

It was as if he were being transported back to the rugby pitch nearly twenty years ago. He could almost feel Jeffery’s fist meeting his nose, the way he had fallen into the dirt, the red hot trickle of blood flooding his mouth.

His chest had felt like it had been cracked open from the rejection. It had ached as if his heart had been impaled by his own ribs.

That was then, as well as now.

John’s lips left his abruptly, replaced by cold stinging air.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. It was a struggle, to think, and he hated it. He hated how slow everything felt. The snails pace of his thoughts made him want to scream out in frustration. This is why he hated heroin, why he hardly ever took it, and why he had only ever indulged in it when no one else could see how much it slowed him. His mind felt as dull as a rusty knife.

He studied John’s face, but it took what felt like hours to deduce what he saw in his expression. John’s expression was… sad. He looked sad? Why? Did he make John sad by kissing him?

“John…” he began, but John’s hand came up to stop him. His fingers so painfully close to his lips, without touching.

John’s hand fell back down to his lap, then he cleared his throat before saying, “I can’t— We shouldn’t.”

Sherlock was trying to breath evenly but it was a struggle. Not only was the heroin making it difficult, but the incredibly large lump in his throat wasn’t helping.

Why? Why couldn’t John kiss him? Why shouldn’t they kiss? Was it Mary—

Oh.

Oh no. John was married. Sherlock had forgotten. How could he forget? He’d planned the entire insipid ceremony right down to the sodding folded napkins. Had stood beside John at the alter and watched him devote his life to someone other than himself.

John had chosen Mary, had married Mary, had given his entire life to Mary…. not him.

Sherlock had just tried to kiss a married man.

Stupid. Stupid!

He shook his head, his cursed, broken, foggy brain.

“Sherlock—“ John began.

But Sherlock couldn’t bare to hear the words that were about to fall from John’s lips. Words like _sorry_ , and _I’m married_ , and _I love Mary_.

“It was a mistake,” he managed to get out harshly before John could utter a word. Then he watched in horror as John’s face fell.

Why? Why was John crumpling? Why did he look so heartbroken?

He was the one who was married. He had pushed Sherlock away.

Not him. Not him, who had nothing and no one. Who wanted nothing more than to grab John’s face between his hands and bring his mouth back to his.

The rain outside began to slow, to a soft thrumming patter. They sat together in silence, faces only inches apart, watching each other. Tension rolled between them like electrical currents. Neither of them spoke. The silence surrounding them was deafening.

Finally, John moved. He stood slowly, grabbed the empty glass and walked out of sight. A moment later Sherlock could hear the tap running in the kitchen.

Sherlock dragged a hand over his face. His brain was mush, his limbs felt like lead and he had to piss but wasn’t sure he could even stand. Above it all was the aching in his chest. A pulsing, throbbing ache that wouldn’t go away.

How long would he ache for John? How many days, or months or years? He was fairly certain he already knew the answer, and it pained him to think about it.

A random flash of memory entered his mind, no doubt prompted by the rain. He was twelve and it was storming outside of his room. He was huddled in his bed, as the lightening flashed all around him, and boom after boom tore through the sky. He’d laid in bed all night and cried. His father had found him there the next morning, face tear stained, eyes swollen from crying and lack of sleep.

“What’s wrong?” he’d asked Sherlock gently.

Sherlock hadn’t answered him, just shuffled further under the blankets.

His father’s face softened. “You miss him.”

A sob had broken free from his chest, and before he knew it, he was clinging to his father and crying.

Redbeard had died only a few months before, leaving Sherlock alone all night to weather the storm by himself.

His chest had ached then too. The ache of wanting something so much it hurt. The ache of knowing that no matter how much you wanted it, you could never have it. The same kind of ache that dwelled in his chest now.

He was up and moving before John had returned from the sink, dragging himself and his heavy limbs as quickly as he could to the sanctuary of his room.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, once he had noticed what Sherlock was doing.

But Sherlock had already reached the door, and was shutting it closed before John could reach him. The lock slid shut with a loud and satisfying clink.

“Sherlock!” John bellowed from the other side. “Open this door now!”

Sherlock leaned against the wood heavily, heaving in large gulps of air.

John pounded his fist against the door repeatedly. “Sherlock, open the door! You need more water. I need to keep an eye on you, you’re still drugged.”

He shut his eyes and slid to the floor.

The door continued to shake against his back with each strike of John’s fist. “Sherlock!” Pound. “Sherlock!”

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

The pounding suddenly stopped.

Silence returned, and the rain kept falling.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded quieter, more broken. “Please.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, he simply kept his eyes shut and let the darkness claim him.

Outside, the rain stopped.

 

_______________

 

 

When he awoke it was still dark in his room and there was a muffled buzzing sound emanating from somewhere nearby. It took him a stupid amount of time to realise that it was his mobile vibrating in the pocket of his suit jacket.

He groaned, his back stiff from sleeping propped up against a hard, wooden door. It took some time to shift his position in order to reach into his pocket and pull out the buzzing mobile, and by that time it had already stopped buzzing and started again. He sighed heavily, the moment he saw the caller ID.

“What is it?” He managed to get out, despite the fact that his mouth was as dry as cotton. Sherlock shifted his position on the cold floor with a wince.

“Oh, good. You’re still alive.” His brother’s voice, tinged with sarcasm, filled his ear.

“Barely.” He stood and stretched his spine, it cracked loudly. “No thanks to your informant.”

God, he needed to piss. He opened his door and stumbled blindly to the loo.

“Yes.” Mycroft’s tone sounded angrier than he’d ever heard him before. “Speaking of, you and John need to leave immediately.”

“Shocking.” He sighed in relief as he emptied his bladder.

“This isn’t a drill Sherlock. They know where you are, you need to leave. They’ve taken Victor.”

Sherlock froze, suddenly feeling very awake, and very sober. “What?”

“I’ve managed to track them. They’re no doubt planning on heading to you next. You need to leave. Now.”

He ran from the loo and into his room, immediately shoving everything he could into his suitcase at once. “Where?”

“I have someone coming to pick you up, they might already be waiting outside. It should be a 2012 black Mercedes Benz, license plate, 9RLR421. Don’t get in any other car.”

He finished packing with a quick zip, then headed out to the living room. What he saw upon exiting his room, made him falter to a stop.

Sitting on the hard wood floor, leaning against the doorjamb, sound asleep, was John. Sherlock must have overlooked him earlier when he’d gone to the loo, but John had clearly been sitting outside of his door for hours, waiting for Sherlock to emerge.

The sight of him slumped on the floor, eyes closed from exhaustion, made Sherlock’s heart lurch painfully.

But he had no time for pain or sentiment. They had to leave immediately.

“John,” he called out while passing by him.

John jerked himself awake, confusion etched upon his features.

“Get packed. We have to leave. Now.”

To his credit, John didn’t ask questions, just stood as quickly as possible despite the pain of stiff muscles and bones, and headed straight to his room.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked his brother, mobile sandwiched between his shoulder and ear, as he ran through the room making sure they hadn’t left anything important behind.

“I’m hiding you away for awhile. You need to stay under the radar until I can set up a safe meeting with your next informant.”

“Where?” Sherlock repeated, as he found a stack of papers he had almost missed, and shoved them into his laptop case.

“A cottage just outside of Dingle, Ireland. Your transport to the airport will be handing you an envelope with everything you need. And he’ll be confiscating your mobiles.”

Sherlock paused. “What?”

“You’ve had them for too long, someone might be able to track you with them. I’m not taking any more chances. You’ll receive new mobiles at some point, don’t worry.”

“Oh, no of course not. Abandoned in the middle of nowhere without any means of communication. I’m not worried at all.”

“What?” John had emerged from his room, suitcase in hand.

“Nothing,” Sherlock grumbled, as he hung up on his brother without so much as a goodbye.

They stood in the living room for a heartbeat, just staring at each other from across the room. No doubt John was thinking of all that had happened the night before. Sherlock was only thinking about the kiss.

He couldn’t help it, it was seared into his brain.

Locked up in a cottage with John, in the middle of nowhere, for an unknown amount of time, with no other people or distractions…

This was going to be… torturous.

He broke eye contact with John, under the pretence of checking that he had all of his luggage. “Ready?” he asked, without bothering to wait for a response.

He was already halfway down the stairs by the time he heard John’s quiet voice say, “yeah, I guess.”

Appropriate response, Sherlock thought, as he opened the door and immediately found the Mercedes Benz waiting for them. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready for the next part of their adventure either.

It could very well be the hardest challenge they had yet to face.


	16. Lust and Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you…” John began, voice deep and rough, and leaden with so much arousal he didn’t even recognise it as his own.

John was dreaming.

He could distantly tell that his body was cramped in an airplane seat. He could feel a dull ache in his leg, and the nagging discomfort of his spine, and even a vague signal from his bladder telling him that he needed to piss, but he ignored it all. Instead he gladly opted for the imaginary dream-like scenario that played in his head, as he drifted weightlessly between sleeping and waking.

In his dream he was seated in his chair at Baker Street, slumped down, legs sprawled out comfortably before him. Across from him sat Sherlock, practically spilling out of his own chair.

The scene was familiar, reminiscent of John’s stag do. In fact, almost everything about the imagined scenario was the same as that night, with one glaring exception: neither of them were drunk.

At least John didn’t feel intoxicated, he simply felt relaxed, comfortable, at peace. He slumped down even further into his chair, socked feet reaching out to Sherlock’s.

Their legs brushed.

They were staring at one another from the comfort of their chairs, chairs that had been pulled closer together, but still felt too far away. Far too far away, John thought as he lifted his socked foot and purposefully dragged it up Sherlock’s leg.

Sherlock smiled slowly.

He looked so damn gorgeous in the dim firelight, warm yellow glowing across his porcelain skin.  Long lean lines splayed out before him. John’s eyes raked over every inch of his lithe body, drinking him in slowly, like expensive scotch.

He looked so different from the usual stone cold facade he displayed to the rest of the world. In the dimness and intimacy of their sitting room, he looked informal, unbuttoned, wanton. John licked his lips.

He finished tracing Sherlock’s muscled calf with his foot, then shifted in his chair, thighs spreading wide.

Sherlock’s smile grew.

John watched in slow motion as all six feet of consulting detective slid from his chair and knelt down before him, nestling perfectly in the V of John’s legs.

The fire crackled warmly beside them. John reached out to Sherlock’s face and traced one fine boned cheek with the tip of his finger. “Gorgeous,” John allowed himself to whisper into the sacred silence of the moment.  Sherlock shivered minutely at the praise, sparkling blue eyes growing hooded.

Something deep and primal ignited inside of John. His hand drifted further back into Sherlock’s soft curls, then tightened and tugged.

Sherlock whimpered.

“I want you…” John began, voice deep and rough, and leaden with so much arousal he didn’t even recognise it as his own.

“Yes.” Sherlock urged.

John’s eyes roved over Sherlock’s form greedily. There was so much that he wanted. Years, and months, and days of want, all crammed up inside of him. His right hand, still buried in Sherlock’s hair, grabbed and pulled, this time forcing Sherlock’s head back, revealing a long white column of flesh.

Christ… That neck. How long had he wanted that neck? How long had he studied it, imagining how perfect it would look, marked. And now, it was bared before him, a veritable feast. He leaned forward slowly, intending to claim it as his own.

He brushed his nose lightly against the delicate skin just beneath Sherlock’s ear, and breathed in deeply.  He filled his lungs with the musky, spiced scent before taking a small taste, just a nip of Sherlock’s skin into his mouth, grazing it lightly with his teeth.

Sherlock shuddered beneath him. “John…” he breathed out.

A heated growl rumbled in his chest as his mouth latched onto Sherlock's neck, circling the skin with his tongue, sucking at it sweetly, then laving it with broad wet strokes.

Soft, mewling whimpers broke free from Sherlock’s throat, and John could feel the vibration of each one as it escaped.

John bit down harder, and Sherlock literally moaned.

Christ…

Every ounce of self control was lost as John began to suck more deeply, and with relish.

Sherlock’s body physically lifted itself from the ground. “John,” he breathed out, beseeching, begging.

John continued, tongue swirling, nostrils flaring, desperate to consume him. Desperate to mark Sherlock as _his_.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, going boneless beneath him.

After several long moments spent worshiping Sherlock's glorious neck, John gave one last hard tug with his mouth, humming as he licked tenderly over the bruised skin.  

Sherlock, who had been practically writhing during John's ministrations, sunk back down between John's legs with a slow, breathy exhale. 

John gave the bruise one last parting kiss, then leaned back to inspect his work. “Gorgeous,” he murmured reverently as his eyes beheld the deepening crimson of blood that had gathered under the ivory of Sherlock’s skin. He was suddenly gripped with the desire, to strip Sherlock of every stitch of clothing, and litter the vast expanse of his uncharted skin with similar marks. He groaned at the thought, then fell back fully into his chair, body limp from desire, eyes locked with Sherlock’s.

The sight of Sherlock, kneeling before him, sent another violent wave of arousal throughout his lust addled body.

Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide, his cheeks and neck were flushed a soft pink, and his hair was an an absolute riot, sticking up in every direction.

John hadn’t even noticed what his own hand had been doing in Sherlock's hair, how it had roved freely through ebony curls while he’d sucked that gorgeous neck raw with abandon.

His mouth watered at the memory as the fireplace continued to crackle beside them, flames flickering, bathing them both in amber intimacy.

He lifted his hand up to touch Sherlock’s face lazily. “Christ… Sherlock…” His thumb ran over Sherlock’s plush mouth, tracing over his bottom lip once, then twice, mesmerised by the beauty of the man kneeling before him.

Sherlock’s gaze was intense, eyes locked on John, searing into him with heated desire. Then, just as John was tracing the plump swell of Sherlock’s bottom lip once more, Sherlock caught John’s hand in his grip, long fingers circling his wrist tightly. His gaze bore into John keenly, as if to say, “don’t take your eyes off of me.”

John watched with rapt attention as Sherlock sucked the tip of John’s thumb into his mouth. Hot, wet heat enveloped him. God— the image was breathtaking. Air caught in his lungs as his thumb disappeared into that sinful mouth, sinking deeper into the velvet, moist heat. John could imagine with perfect clarity what it would look like if Sherlock had that perfect mouth wrapped around another part of him-

“DING.”

John groaned.

“The captain has turned off the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign. You are now free to roam about the cabin.”

The loud clinking of passengers unfastening their belts sounded all around him, pulling him even further from his dream.

“Is there anything you need?” A flight attendant appeared beside him, ruining all hopes of him returning to the warmth of his fantasy.

He pried his eyes open, just as Sherlock’s voice replied with a rather curt, “no.”

The flight attendant disappeared and John shifted in his seat.

Sudden, horrifying clarity hit him.

He was hard. Achingly hard. With a suspicious amount of haste, John scrambled around for the free airline blanket. Dammit, where had it gone?

“Alright?” Sherlock asked beside him.

“Yeah,” he grumbled out, while trying to hide his current state and look for the damn blanket.

“Here.” Sherlock produced a blanket from thin air, practically shoving it in John’s face.

John took it with a mumbled, “ta” as he scrambled to get it out of the plastic cover and over his lap.

All the while he could feel Sherlock’s knowing gaze upon him. He wanted to turn and punch him in the face, but they were currently trapped on a plane.  He could only imagine how well punching Sherlock would go down with the other passengers.

It was a curse, he thought, as he leaned his head back against his seat heavily. Every man wanted to be well endowed, but none of them realised how inconvenient it could actually be. Getting an erection at an embarrassing moment was not any easy thing to hide when you were… larger than normal. It was something that had plagued him as a teenager. Luckily, he no longer had to deal with it as often, getting random stiffy’s in your early forties wasn’t a common occurrence, but this happened to be one of those rare and horrifying exceptions.

And Christ— why wouldn’t Sherlock just stop looking at him.

“What?” he managed to finally say.

“Nothing.” Sherlock replied shortly.

John turned to face him, unsurprised to find Sherlock still staring at him, as if he were examining a particularly interesting corpse. “Then stop staring at me.”

“Why?” Sherlock challenged.

Bloody hell, he really was about to punch the sodding git right in the face. “I have to piss,” he announced. He managed to get his seatbelt off while the blanket was still placed strategically over his, now only half-hard bulge, and shuffled off to the loo as quickly as possible.

Sherlock knew. He had to know, he was so damn observant, and John’s behaviour was as obvious as a flashing neon sign advertising ‘ _erection, erection, John Watson has an erection_.’

Bloody fantastic.

With incredible luck, he managed to slip into an unoccupied loo without waiting in line. He shut the door firmly behind him, then leaned back for a moment and breathed. Once he'd calmed down a bit, his persistent bladder made itself known. With a sigh he stepped forward and unzipped his fly.

It was then, standing in an airplane loo, that he remembered what had caused his erection in the first place. The dream. Dear God, that dream.

What if…

What if he had been making noises? What if he had said Sherlock’s name? Dread filled him.

The last thing John needed was Sherlock knowing that he'd had an erotic dream about him.  It only made him appear more pathetic, because Sherlock had rejected him, not once, but  _twice_.  

Oh God… John ran a hand over his face before flushing the toilet.

How many times would he come on to Sherlock, dream of Sherlock, desire Sherlock, until he finally got the point? Sherlock wasn’t interested. He'd made it quite clear to John that he wasn't interested.

John could still remember with perfectly clarity the feeling of Sherlock laying in his arms at that run-down motel in Germany.  Could still taste Sherlock's skin on his lips.  Could still hear Sherlock's cold hard voice telling him to stop.

And just last night...  ' _It was a mistake.'_

Sherlock had confirmed that the kiss had just been nothing but a mistake.

A horrible mistake.

Get it in your head Watson, he told his weary reflection in the mirror as he washed his hands perfunctorily in the sink, he doesn’t want you.

He walked back to his seat at a much slower pace this time, not particularly looking forward to sitting next to Sherlock.

When he finally plopped back into his seat, Sherlock was busy browsing through a magazine, nearly tearing it apart with each violent turn of the page.

After several moments of listening to the ‘rip, turn’ of the pages, John finally turned to Sherlock. “Bored?”

Sherlock threw the magazine to the floor, leaned back and sighed heavily, “painfully.”

John froze. Sherlock’s head was thrown back and his neck, pale and white and perfect, was bared before him. John’s entire body warmed, and his mouth literally watered.

He tore his gaze away immediately, focusing on the unattractive pattern of blue fabric on the chair in front of him.

“No technology John!” Sherlock whinged. “For days, possibly weeks. It’s abhorrent.”

John agreed, taking a deep breath and willing his skin to cool back down. He had no idea how he was supposed to deal with a painfully bored Sherlock for that long.

Blessedly, Sherlock said nothing more.  

Unfortunately, the awkward silence returned.

The dreaded 'awkward silence' had first appeared during their long car ride to the airport, and continued as they stood in the seemingly endless security line at the airport.  It hovered between them as they waited to board the plane, and didn’t end, even as they sat side by side while the plane took off.

They had hardly talked at all since 'the kiss'.  

In addition to the 'awkward silence' they purposefully avoided each others gaze, side-stepped one another at every turn, and kept each other at a safe-distance with admirable expertise.

It was awful.

John should have stopped the kiss from ever happening, but he hadn't, and now there was this terrible awkwardness between them.

He’d sodding known better.  Known that Sherlock was under the influence of drugs, that he hadn’t meant to kiss John, and still he had allowed it to happen. Worse: he’d wanted it to happen. Wanted it like the hopelessly-in-love sod that he was.

At least he’d managed to push Sherlock away, though it had been a close call. He’d very nearly kept going, nearly taken control of the kiss, deepened it, turned into something more... It had taken ever fibre of self control he had left in him, to push Sherlock away.  And of course it’d turned out to be the right choice, Sherlock had even confirmed it was the right choice by telling John under no uncertain terms that it had been a mistake.

' _It was a mistake.'_

John was just thankful that he hadn’t taken advantage of Sherlock’s drugged state. He would have hated himself if he had done that, he never wanted to hurt Sherlock.

The flight attendant eventually returned with overcooked food in plastic trays. John handed Sherlock his coffee. Their hands accidentally bumped. They both hurriedly apologized while avoiding eye contact, and tearing theirselves as far apart from each other as physically possible.

Then they returned to their silence.  

John longed to chastise Sherlock for not eating, but he couldn’t. Partly because the food was God awful, and partly because he felt like he no longer had the right to tell him to eat.

John scooped a mouthful of soggy chicken into his mouth and continued to stare at the disgusting blue fabric in front of him, all the while hating the overwhelming distance that had grown between them like a cavernous gulf.

 

_______________

 

 

Mycroft dug his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. It wasn’t raining but it was cold and damp and foggy. A typical English day in February.

His feet crunched over pebbles and broken glass as he walked gingerly to the edge of the water.

The Thames surged past, muddy brown and turbulent. A chill wind blew and Mycroft reached out and tightened the collar of his coat.

A figure stood at the edge of the water, and Mycroft joined him.

“Explain yourself.” Moriarty demanded, without even tossing a glance in Mycroft’s direction.

“Must I?” He placed his hands back in his pockets and sighed. He was tired of dealing with Jim. It was exhausting.

Moriarty turned slowly and looked at him. He looked murderous, then his face shifted into a malicious grin. “Do you know why we’re here?”

Mycroft shook his head, “no.”

Moriarty’s gaze returned to the muddy waters before him. “Watch.”

Mycroft watched the water with disinterest. He had at least five meetings he needed to attend to, but instead he was standing on the shore of the Thames, on a bitterly cold day, waiting for God knew what.

Just when he was about to turn and walk away from this madness, he saw what Jim had wanted him to see. A body floated along the river, bloated, unmoving, clearly dead.

Mycroft took a deep breath.

“He was one of my best operatives. Always loyal, a good shot too.” Moriarty droned on dully, as if he were discussing the price of eggs at the grocery store.

Mycroft didn’t want to play along, but he really did need to leave for a meeting soon. “What did he do wrong?”

Jim turned back to Mycroft again, grin growing even more malicious. “Nothing. He did absolutely nothing wrong.” He shrugged. “I was bored.”

Mycroft returned his gaze to the body as it hurried past them. This, he thought, was the entire reason he was working for this monster.

He could still remember with clarity the day Jim Moriarty had first approached him.

“It’s simple,” he’d said. “Do as I say or I’ll kill Sherlock.”

Mycroft had spent days, weeks, trying to work his way out of Jim’s threat, but it the end he couldn’t. Jim was a psychopath, and psychopath’s couldn’t be reasoned with. They didn’t have weak points, they desired nothing in particular. They were overgrown children who fancied the world, and everyone in it, as their toy.

Jim could decide whether he wanted to play with or discard anything he wanted to, without logic or reason, it all depended on what he fancied at the time. Right now he fancied Sherlock, enjoyed playing with Sherlock, but at any moment he could decide that he was done playing with him.

Therefore, Mycroft had agreed to work with Moriarty, with the sole intention of keeping him interested in Sherlock. The longer Jim was interested, the longer Mycroft could keep his brother alive.

And the longer he kept Sherlock alive, the more time he had to figure out how to defeat Jim, once and for all.

“Lovely.” Mycroft muttered. “Are we done?”

Jim kept staring at him, until Mycroft finally turned to look at him once again.

“I know you fancy saving your brother,” Moriarty leaned in close. “But you won’t save him by defying me. Remember our deal?”

Mycroft smiled. “With clarity. I’m not defying you. I’m putting Sherlock somewhere safe because you did not hold up to your end of the bargain.”

Moriarty broke into gales of laughter. “Oh hilarious. Quite funny.”

Mycroft’s smile faded. “Almost killing my brother is not amusing.”

The laughter only grew. “He isn’t dead!” After several moments Jim finally grew serious. “You know… Your brotherly love is a bit— unnatural.”

Mycroft’s stomach turned at the implication. “You’re disgusting.”

Jim merely raised his eyebrows, then winked lewdly. He turned away from the Thames and Mycroft, as if to leave, but paused to say, “I’ll allow you to hide him away for a short amount of time, but I am growing bored.” He glanced at Mycroft over his shoulder, “so I suggest you don’t keep him hidden for too long. Otherwise I’ll find him, and… you won’t like what will happen next.”

He left Mycroft alone on the shore, staring at the rushing water, wondering how many dead bodies lay beneath. Years of war, plagues, and murders no doubt left the bottom of London’s river littered with bones.

Death was inevitable, they would all end up as a pile of bones in the end.

Mycroft had little time to think of death, he had a meeting to go to.

He turned and left.


	17. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His resolve was cracking. There were fractures all over the wall he had so carefully erected between himself and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans. I am incredibly thankful for all of my wonderful readers. Your support and comments give me a great amount of joy.
> 
> This week's chapter is coming to you a little early, I hope you enjoy it! I'm rather fond of this one.
> 
> Shoutout to JunkenMetel for the amazing clawfoot tub suggestion. ;-)

 

Ireland was shrouded in a giant cloud of mist and rain, green and verdant. Practically medieval.

It was raining buckets as they left the airport in another of Mycroft’s unmarked black cars.

It rained the entire ride to the train.

It rained while they boarded the train, and as they road off into the countryside.

By the time they made it to their destination, John was wet and uncomfortable, and most of all, cold.

The cottage stood upon a small sloping hill, surrounded by green open fields and moss covered stone walls.

The mist was cloying and thick. It covered the cottage like a grey blanket as their cab pulled up on the gravel drive. Somewhere in the distance was the ocean, but the thick mist made it hard to see anything beyond a couple hundred feet.

John excited the car, rain driving down around him as he wrestled his luggage out of the boot. Sherlock walked past him and straight to the front door, leaving John to drag his luggage out as well. Good to know some things never changed.

The outside of the cottage was white, with a thatched roof and a rusty red door, cracked and weathered from time. It looked like something out of a BBC miniseries Mrs. Hudson sometimes forced him to watch when he was looking to escape Sherlock by joining her for tea downstairs. If she were with John now, she’d undoubtedly be all a flutter at the romance of it all.

By the time John made it into the cottage, he was nearly soaked to the bone. He plopped the luggage on the floor, then closed the door quickly behind him, attempting to shut out all vestiges of harsh weather.

It was even colder inside, than it had been outside.

The rain continued to patter against the thin windowpanes as John took in his surroundings.

The cottage was larger inside than it had appeared from the outside, though it was only a little bigger than their home at 221B. Part of of the illusion had to do with the fact that there were no rooms separated by walls, just one large living space.

To the right was a sitting area, with a large fireplace against the wall, a couple of armchairs and a small sofa. Behind the sitting area was a kitchen, with a single sink, counter and a set of cupboards. To the left of the kitchen was a door leading out to the back of the property, and to the left of that was a large claw foot tub.

John turned round, to find behind him sat a double bed nestled in the furthest corner. It was covered in various blankets with a wardrobe just large enough to hold a couple of shirts and jackets.

The cottage was quaint, early century in style, as if it had been frozen in time. Whoever owned it, had attempted to make it as warm and cozy as possible, despite the frigid temperature inside. The stone floors were covered in large rugs, the furniture was draped in sheepskin and wool blankets. The walls were painted a dark brown, and various art canvases hung between the many brightly lit windows.

Sherlock was busy turning on the lamps, casting the emerald and crimson furnishings in a warm golden glow.

It was certainly not the Ritz Carlton, but there was something about it that John loved. Something earthy and homely that reminded him vividly of his Grandmother. It even smelled like her.

John picked up his luggage and placed it on the bed. He unzipped it open and rummaged for the warmest clothing he’d brought. It wasn’t till he’d dug out a fresh pair of corduroy trousers, shirt and thin jumper that he realised there was nowhere private for him to go to change.

He lifted his gaze up to find Sherlock crouched in front of the fireplace, apparently attempting to start a fire. John would have confirmed his activities verbally, but they still weren’t talking to each other.

For a few moments he stood there, literally dripping wet, dry clothes still clasped in his hands, debating what to do.

“For Gods sake John, change your clothes, I promise I won’t look.”

John startled at the sound of Sherlock voice.

He stared at the rigid lines of Sherlock’s back, as he began piling wood into the hearth. “Right.” John huffed out under his breath. He was being ridiculous. They would have to change in front of each other for… however long they were sentenced to stay there, he might as well just go for it. Besides, he’d been naked in front of other men countless times in his life. He played rugby, he was in the army, it was practically second nature to him.

His eyes never left Sherlock’s back as he peeled off his wet clothes one by one. Each one landed on the floor with a loud wet smack. John flinched as each one fell, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s back, intent on making sure Sherlock kept his word, and didn’t turn around.

When he’d finally fully changed, he heaved out a heavy breath and tore his eyes away from Sherlock to pick up his wet discarded garments. He rung them out over the tub and laid them over the edge of the bath to dry. Once he’d finished he walked over to the old wooden wardrobe and opened it. Inside he found two thick woollen jumpers, folded and laying at the bottom.

He picked one up and put it on over his other jumper. He went to retrieve Sherlock’s suitcase, laid it next to his and opened it. After several moments of rummaging, he emerged with a set of warm clothes for Sherlock to change into. He laid them out on the bed, and walked over to Sherlock.

“Let me,” he nudged Sherlock over with a soft tap of his shoulder. It was the first time they had touched purposefully in the last twenty four hours. Sherlock physically reeled at the contact, and John’s stomach twisted painfully at the reaction.

“I’ve got it.” Sherlock gritted out, as he grabbed another log and threw it in.

“Sherlock.” It came out far more harshly than he’d intended it to, but he was tired, and sore, and cold to the bone. “Go and change into warmer clothing, I’ll start the fire.”

“I can do it.” Sherlock reached for the matches, but John blocked him.

“Do you even know how to start a fire?”

“Really, John? How dull-witted do you think I am?”

John didn’t answer, simply looked at him pointedly.

“Fine.” Sherlock stood abruptly and stormed off in a fit.

It took a great deal of fiddling, and a search for kindling, but after several minutes John finally got the fire started. He remained crouched by it, frozen hands hovering over the flames, fatigued eyes staring aimlessly into the flickering light.

Sherlock joined him, his own long fingers hovering near the flames while intentionally remaining as far away from John as possible.

John’s eyes slipped closed with a deep sigh.

They sat there as the silvery light from outside began to darken. John started to drift in and out of sleep. After nearly falling forward into the fire, he finally decided it was time to sleep. He stood and stretched, and immediately noticed how cold the rest of the room still was.

He went to the bed, stared at it for several moments before grabbing all the blankets and bringing them back to the fire.

“Here.” He handed several of the blankets to Sherlock.

After wrapping himself up in thick layers of scratchy wools and soft worn quilts, he sat back down in front of the fire, stoked it and added several more logs to the disintegrating pile.

Sherlock wrapped himself up as well, and John couldn’t help but laugh, because he looked like a pile of blankets by the time he was done.

Sherlock shot him a look that clearly said, ‘what?’ without saying it.

John chuckled again. “You look like a giant marshmallow.”

“What?”

“A marshmallow. Don’t tell me you’ve deleted marshmallows.” John half-heatedly teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and the gesture was so familiar and such a normal part of their relationship that it warmed John from the inside. “Of course I know what a marshmallow is.”

“Good.”

Perhaps they would survive this, he thought.

The awkward silence descended upon them once again as they both returned their gazes to the glowing flames, but this time it didn’t feel quite so awkward.

 

______________

 

 

John had fallen asleep.

Sherlock stood, turned off the other lamps then returned to his spot in front of the crackling fire, next to John.

Sherlock studied him in the dim light emanating from the fire. He looked so peaceful whenever he slept. The lines seemed to melt from his face, and there was a lightness to his features that made him look years younger. He was slumped over on his side, pillow beneath his head, covered from head to toe in a thick pile of blankets.

Sherlock shuffled deeper into his own cocoon of blankets as he continued to watch the light flicker across John’s face.

He longed to reach out and touch him, to trace his skin, and run his fingers through his hair… but there was a distance between them now, as insurmountable gulf that had erupted ever since Sherlock had kissed—

He shook the memory from his mind. He’d intended to erase it, but like all memories attached to John, he couldn’t force his mind to forget, no matter how hard he’d tried.

Instead the memory played on repeat, haunting him, torturing him.

He’d forced himself upon John. He’d placed his lips on John’s and if he’d only been thinking straight, he would have never kissed him in the first place. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would’ve known that John would push him away.

It was his own fault. He’d pretended to kill himself in front of John, of course John hadn’t bothered to wait for him. Of course he’d moved on. Why would Sherlock have have ever thought differently?

And even after he’d returned, after he’d come back from the dead, John still married her. He’d still chosen someone else.

Of course Sherlock hadn’t been stupid enough to believe that John would have ever returned Sherlock’s feelings. He’d never even dreamed that they would have had a traditional relationship, with kissing and touching and sex. No, of course not. He was content with what they’d had before he’d jumped off the roof of St. Barts. John wasn’t dating, and they had a connection, a certain brand of domesticity.

They were John and Sherlock, partners and friends. It had been enough…

He’d wanted more, even then—just a niggling of an idea of ‘more’— but he had been content with what he’d had. He’d known better than to dream of anything else.

When he jumped from the roof, he’d thought John would still be there when he got back. That they’d just… pick up where they had left off.

He’d been stupidly foolish. Idiotic. Moronic. Deaf, dumb and blind.

Now all that was left for him was scraps. Not even scraps. Now all he had was the ghostly dream of what they once were. No more tangible than wisps of smoke.

What was worse than everything he’d suddenly been bereft of, was the full realisation of all that he now wanted.

Dreams and wishes and desires that had made themselves painfully known to him as he had stood in that damnable church and watched John give himself away to someone else.

He wanted…

He wanted soft touches, and tender kisses. He wanted the nights of passion, and the comforts of domesticity.

He wanted John Watson to be his husband.

A dull stab of pain shot through his heart.

When would he stop wanting what he could never have?

 _Never_.

Sherlock blinked.

Even as the word resounded in his brain, bouncing off the walls of his mind palace—walls that had all been constructed around the very foundation of his love for John— he knew it to be true.

He’d never stop loving John Watson, so long as he had breath in his lungs.

With shaking fingers he reached out towards John, and brushed back a piece of fringe that had fallen into John’s delicate eyelashes. His hair was getting long, Sherlock thought absently, it needed a trim.

He tore his hand away reluctantly, fingertips lingering at the very ends of John’s fine golden hair, until he finally managed to bring his hand back to himself, cradling it close to his chest.

The skin where he’d touched John felt different somehow.

He closed his eyes. Every inch of his body that had ever touched John felt tattooed, forever changed.

If only John wanted to claim what was already his.

Sherlock would never belong to anyone else.

He opened his eyes, and stared at John’s sleeping form, and cursed himself when his vision grew blurry with tears.

He’d never hated himself more than he did in that moment.

 

_______________

 

 

John blinked once. His body felt warm, but his face was cold. Where was he?

He blinked again, this time keeping his eyes open, wincing when the harsh light stabbed his vision.

He was in the cottage, he remembered now, he must have fallen asleep last night next to the fireplace. His back popped and creaked as he struggled to sit up. The blankets slipped from his shoulder and he gasped.

It was fucking cold.

He swirled his head to the side and noticed that the fireplace had grown cold as well, nothing but smouldering ash was left.

The light streaming in through the windows was grey and clouded, but the rain seemed to have stopped. Despite the damp cold air, John tore his arms out of the blankets to re-start the fire, wondering groggily where Sherlock had gone to.

They were already running low on wood, John would have to go out in search for more. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to chop any.

After he’d finally gotten another set of logs ablaze, and the heat began to creep steadily back onto his bones, he decided it was time to get up and see where Sherlock was off to. Hopefully he hadn’t wandered off somewhere outside and died of hypothermia.

The very last thing John had expected, when he finally rose from his spot on the floor was the sight of steam rising from the bear clawed bathtub on the other side of the room.

John still wasn’t fully awake, that was the excuse he later came up with, to explain why he had moved closer to the tub. As he moved closer, the vision he’d already known he wasn’t imagining became even more shockingly clear.

Sherlock was sprawled out on his back, in the steaming hot tub, half filled with water, completely naked.

One of his pale, long legs was draped over the edge, as well as both of his fine boned arms, and his head was bent back, wet dark curls clinging to his forehead and neck. The morning light was streaming in from the large window next to the tub, and it made Sherlock’s skin look even more ethereal than ever.

And John couldn’t stop staring.

He was gorgeous. He took John’s breath away.

Arousal ran through him, warming him inside like a shot of whiskey.

He needed to leave. He needed to get the hell away from Sherlock as fast as possible before he moved forward and…

And…

What?

God, he didn’t even know, he just knew he wanted. He wanted every inch of that pale, damp, milky skin.

Wanted to run his hands over it, and litter it with kisses, and whisper confessions into it.

“John?”

Sherlock was looking at him, casually, as if this were an every day occurrence.

It wasn’t. It. Bloody. Well. Wasn’t.

Sherlock didn’t even take baths. Not until Janine… John pushed that memory violently aside.

Sherlock took showers.

John had tried to convince him to take baths, had told him how relaxing they were, and how it was perfectly normal for a man to take baths. He’d practically ordered him to take them, telling him how it would help him think on a case, or unwind afterwards… but Sherlock had brushed him off every time.

So, no. No. This was not an every day occurrence.

They had shared the loo when they had lived together, but John had made a point of them never being in it at the same time. He’d driven the point home very clearly when he’d bought a lock for the door. Yes, he knew Sherlock could pick locks but it was more of a statement then an actual safeguard against Sherlock breaking in while he was taking a shower. Something Sherlock had done several times when John had first moved in, hence why he’d installed the lock.

“John?” Sherlock repeated.

Shit, he was still standing there, just staring at him.

John finally managed to look away. “Yes,” he cleared his throat, “yeah, I’m just…” What? What was he doing? Staring at his naked friend, like he was a feast he meant to devour? “Going to go get more wood.” He flinched at the word ‘wood’ for completely juvenile reasons.

“Good,” Sherlock laid his head back down, long neck arching, eyes closing. “It’s gotten cold in here.”

John meant to chastise him, accuse him of the cold being his own bloody fault since he hadn’t bothered to keep the fire going, but the words never left his mouth.

He was too busy gaping. Gaping and staring, eyes roving down Sherlock’s body, down his chest, across the flat planes of his abdomen, to the trail of dark hair leading to—

John turned sharply and headed straight to the door. His hand was on the knob before he realised he’d need a coat… and shoes.

He found a thick coat hanging by the door, as well as a pair of wellies. He shoved his feet in them, then stepped out the door as fast as he could without tripping over his own feet and falling face first into the mud.

The moment the cold wind hit him he could suddenly think again.

Oh God, how was he going to survive the next few days, or weeks, alone in this small cottage with Sherlock?

His resolve was cracking. There were fractures all over the wall he had so carefully erected between himself and Sherlock.

It was only a matter of time before the wall came tumbling down.


	18. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His head literally hurt from the stupidity of it it all. “Tell me,” he sat up and looked at John while enunciated every word slowly and clearly, “something about yourself that I don’t already know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am so so so sorry for the delay! I got horribly sick with the flu for a week, then everything Christmas took over my life. But today I have a very long chapter for you. I hope you enjoy it and that it's worth the wait I've put you through. The next chapter will hopefully be up before The Special. Enjoy! And Merry Christmas!

John dropped a bowl down onto the coffee table, directly in front of Sherlock’s face, with a loud plop.

Baked beans. Again.

Sherlock groaned.

“Eat,” John ordered, then walked away.

Sherlock, was sprawled out on the small sofa, legs dangling over the edge, flopped over dramatically, purposefully facing away from the coffee table and food.

It had been three days. Three days since they had first arrived in Ireland, and Sherlock was bored.

He groaned again, even louder, just to emphasise exactly how bored he was.

John continued to ignore him.

The first day Sherlock had lain in the bath tub until his skin had gone pruney, the water had gone cold, and John had randomly started yelling that he needed to get out of the tub and get some damn clothes on before he caught a cold. After that he’d managed to find a book to read, but he’d only gotten twenty three pages in before he chucked it into the fire, lest it destroy any of his remaining brain cells. In the end, he decided to reorganise the music room in his mind palace.

Day two was just as horrid. He’d rummaged through their tiny kitchen, trying to find something to experiment on, before John had noticed and ordered him not to touch a single precious can of baked beans. Apparently they needed to eat, or something.

He rolled his eyes at the memory of it.

After the whole ‘food’ debacle, he tried exploring outside, but John dragged him back in after several hours, once again complaining that he’d catch a cold and die.

John could be so overly dramatic sometimes.

Then he’d played with the fire for several hours, experimenting with the veracity of heat, burn time, and flame colour. That had occupied him for approximately two hours and forty three minutes. Afterwards he’d searched for more books, found several… and decided to burn them as well.

He hid John’s tooth brush and timed how long it took him to find it. One hour and seventeen seconds. Pathetic.

He smoked three cigarette’s before John ripped the carton from his hands and threw them out into the driving rain.

Then he’d plotted John’s death, but couldn’t manage to come up with any working scenarios in his head. Stupid, _stupid_ sentiment. So he’d spent several minutes plotting Mycroft’s death instead.

By late afternoon, Sherlock had become so bored he was practically climbing the walls. He finally managed to escape the cottage again, after John had fallen asleep near the fire reading. He headed to the ocean, climbed rocks, found a tide pool, and gathered several specimens to bring back and examine.

John had been livid when he’d finally returned. Predictable.

At least he’d gathered things to experiment on, but… his experiments only took two hours and sixteen minutes. Without a microscope there was little he could do. It was agony.

It a final fit of absolute and unadulterated boredom he ended up falling asleep at seven o’clock. He’d even managed to sleep through the entire night.

Now it was the morning of the third day, and the prospect of having to find something, _anything_ , to keep him from the complete boredom he’d experienced the previous two days, was weighing on him heavily.

And then there was John. John who was tetchy, yet overall unaffected by the boredom. John who ate the baked beans in silence, who read the dreadfully awful books, who sat in the same damn chair all day and didn’t even complain. It was deplorable.

As Sherlock studied him, he could see how John had managed to sit for months doing absolutely nothing in that drab bedsit of his before meeting Sherlock. Sherlock would have never been able to manage it, but John was an absolute expert at the old British mantra of keeping calm and carrying on. He was practically the poster boy for it. It thoroughly sickened Sherlock.

John wasn’t meant to be sitting around doing nothing. John was meant to be active, to be running after criminals, or healing victims, or shooting guns. It was Sherlock’s job to keep John active, and here he was monumentally failing at it.

He let out a strangled cry of frustration, pulling at his hair and burying his head into the sofa cushion.

John let out a heavy sigh.

Sherlock froze. That was it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? How many brain cells _had_ he lost reading that profanely stupid book yesterday? Apparently more than he’d originally thought.

The perfect experiment was sitting only a few feet away from him in the form of John Hamish Watson!

John was a virtual treasure trove of information. There were at least several tomes left empty in Sherlock’s mind palace, just awaiting further information on John. Stories John had yet to tell Sherlock, secrets he had yet to share.

He sat up on the sofa and suddenly announced, “tell me something I don’t know.”

John lowered the book he was reading and stared at Sherlock wearily. “Are you talking to me?”

Sherlock wanted to walk over and hit him upside the head. “Yes! Of course I’m talking to you, you idiot. Who else would I be talking to?”

“Oi!” John’s expression shifted from weary to glowering. “You haven’t spoken hardly a word to me in the last…” he took an absurd amount of time to calculate, “seventy two hours. So yes, I was clarifying that you were talking to me and not some person in that sodding mind palace of yours.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“What’s the question?”

Sherlock fell back against the sofa, exasperated. “I loath it when you’re ordinary.”

He could practically hear John grinding his teeth. “Clarify the question Sherlock, I have no idea what you’re on about.”

His head literally hurt from the stupidity of it it all. “Tell me,” he sat up and looked at John while enunciated every word slowly and clearly, “something about yourself that I don’t already know.”

John blinked, then he put down his book. “You already know everything about me.”

“False.” Sherlock snapped.

“You know my middle name!”

John was still absurdly angry about that. “Everyone invited to your wedding knows your middle name.”

“No thanks to you!”

“Stop avoiding the question!” Sherlock was finally, blissfully, having fun. The most fun he’d had since before John had tossed his cigarettes out the front door.

John closed his eyes, leaned his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a few moments of silence he lifted his head to look at Sherlock and say, “you’ll have to be more specific, I can’t think of a single thing you don’t already know about me.”

Sherlock scoffed aloud. That was the most patently untrue statement he’d ever heard. There were many things John was purposefully keeping from him. He’d even calculated the number of things to be somewhere around three hundred and forty seven. So many things… Sherlock’s gaze narrowed like a wolf studying it’s prey.

John froze and swallowed thickly.

Oh, this was going to be _very_ fun.

Sherlock decided to start with something easy, something that would answer several of his questions in one go. “How did your parents react when Harry came out?”

John looked momentarily taken aback. He clearly hadn’t expected that question. “Not well.”

Sherlock smiled slowly. “Be more specific.”

John finally tossed his book onto the coffee table and crossed his legs, resigned for the long haul. “What? You want the entire sodding story?”

“Yes, please.” He was counting on the ‘please’ to work.

It did.

“My mum wept and my dad yelled, which was really nothing out of the ordinary. The worst of it was the verbal abuse from my father. Well…” John’s voice drifted off and his face pinched in a way that Sherlock decidedly didn’t like. “The physical abuse was the worst, but that was reserved for when my dad was drunk. When he was sober, it was the verbal abuse. To this day my sister claims none of it affected her but…” He shrugged knowing that Sherlock was smart enough to deduce what John really thought of it all.

“How did Harry coming out effect you?” Sherlock was already certain he knew the answer, in fact he was convinced that he had a clearer idea of it than John did, but he was curious to hear what John would say.

“Me?” John was once again caught off guard.

Sherlock merely nodded.

“I—“ He uncrossed his legs, then re-crossed them. “I’d, never really thought about it before.”

Sherlock believed him.

“It never bothered me that Harry was gay, I made sure that she knew that. Obviously, my parent’s reaction angered me. I hated my father, and I hated him even more after Harry came out. The way he treated her… I wanted to kill him sometimes.” He spoke the words like he had never said them aloud before. Sherlock drank in the knowledge that he was the first person John had ever confessed that dark desire to.

Sherlock also noted how John had re-focused the original question of ‘how did it effect you’, to how it had effected everyone else. Sherlock allowed the avoidance, he’d expound on the question later. “Is that when you started protecting her?”

Sherlock already knew the answer, he already knew the answer to all of these questions so far, but the entire point of this exercise was getting John to confirm Sherlock’s long list of suspicions.

“No. I started protecting her the moment she was born.”

Sherlock smiled. “I bet you were a feisty two year old.”

John chuckled, shifting into a more relaxed position in the overly worn armchair. “Yes, I’ve been told I was a handful. My primary school teachers had to follow me around constantly in case I decided to pommel my peers.”

Sherlock could picture it clearly, a toe headed ball of righteous anger storming about the playground, ready to protect anyone in need. The image made warmth spread throughout Sherlock’s chest. The thought that anyone could hurt John, at any age, but especially when he was so young, and especially by his own father, revolted him. “When did your father start drinking?”

John tensed for a moment, most likely at the memory, then forced himself to relax.

Sherlock sat up fully, facing John, stock still and all attention on him.

“He didn’t start till I was ten. It was difficult…” John’s gaze wandered over to the fireplace, and the flames that were slowly dying. “It was difficult to go from a perfectly happy family life to—“ He didn’t finish but instead cleared his throat, eyes still boring into the crimson embers without really looking at them, his focus was on a vision of the past.

“Did you always—“

John suddenly turned his head to face Sherlock. Expression fierce and determined. “My turn.”

Sherlock hesitated, then simply lifted a brow in question.

“This isn’t an interrogation. Right?” John shifted, straightening his spine, as if preparing for battle.

“Correct,” Sherlock managed to get out rather slowly, unsure of whether or not he liked the direction the conversation was headed.

“Then it’s my turn. I get to ask you questions too. Tit for tat.” John smirked devilishly.

Sherlock let out a low barely whispered breath. Of course. Of course John would want to retaliate. He nodded his head in acquiescence, “go ahead.”

“Tell me everything about your relationship with Victor Trevor.” John levelled him with his gaze for a beat. “And don’t lie.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Why would I—“

John interrupted him with a look, then simply tilted his head knowingly.

Right. Sherlock nodded. “I won’t lie to you. I promise,” he vowed solemnly. “I met Victor at Cambridge, as I said. He was one of the few people who understood me without mockery. He was also surprisingly clever. We worked together at MI-6 and he was the one who introduced me to drugs. We were friends and comrades. Once, and only once, when we were both high, he kissed me and I pushed him away. I was never interested in that sort of relationship with him, though I believe he was attracted to me, based on how often he tried to hit on me. For the most part he was my drug dealer in a sense, he would procure his own haul and share it with me. My brother found out and banished Victor from my life in an attempt at sobriety.”

John stared at him at length. It was unsettling. “Victor told me he was there when you overdosed.”

“Yes.” It was Sherlock’s turn to shift uncomfortably. “Something happened. Something, traumatic, during one of our missions. In response, I purposefully overdosed. Victor was there, but he didn’t know that I had overdosed until it was almost too late. He was the one who called my brother for help. That’s how my brother found out. We had hidden it from him very well. My brother’s never forgiven me for that.”

“For overdosing?”

“For outsmarting him. For keeping my little drug problem a secret.”

John looked at him doubtfully.

“And yes, for overdosing,” Sherlock admitted. “He said it was a horrible waste. That my brain would rot.” He shivered, then turned to look at the fire, the embers nearly all burnt out. “He was trying to scare me into quitting the drugs.” He looked back to John, whilst wrapping his arms around himself for warmth. “It didn’t work.”

John seemed oblivious to the cold. “You continued to use?”

Sherlock sighed audibly. “This thread of conversation is tedious.”

“Not to me,” John said in a quiet and nearly broken tone. He cleared his throat and continued more firmly, “just answer the question.”

Sherlock didn’t understand why this was important to John, but he gathered himself and carried on. “Yes, I continued to use. For three and half more years. To help me think, to quiet my brain. I was always in perfect control of it—“

John snorted.

“I was!” Sherlock glared at him. “I was always in control. You know me, you know my methods. I am methodical. If I had wanted to overdose I would have. I knew exactly how to measure my doses, exactly how much my body could handle. I was in control.”

“Until some maniac gave you rotten goods! Just like they did two sodding days ago!” John boomed, face turning pink with anger.

“That was a stranger. Back when I used I had one dealer, one that I knew I could trust.”

John went still, but somehow his subsequent stillness was far more lethal than his active rage. “Oh I see. You trusted your drug dealer with your life. Well, I’m glad you managed to trust _someone_ on this ruddy planet with it.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the implication. It made the breath in his lungs still. Made his skin turn icy cold. “John—“ he began, but John was clearly not interested in what he had to say.

“What made you finally stop?”

Sherlock lifted his feet from the floor and curled up into a ball on the sofa. Protection from the cold, Sherlock told himself. “Lestrade.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“Not Lestrade himself, the Work. I wanted to be a consulting detective. Lestrade told me that I could if I quit the drugs. So, I did. Easy. In hindsight, it was my brother who set up the entire thing. He planted the idea of ‘consulting detective’ into my brain, orchestrated my ‘run-in’ with Lastrade all to get me to stop using. To his credit, it worked.”

Laughter escaped John’s lips. “Is that why you hate him so much? Your brother? Because you’re indebted to him?”

“One of the many reasons, yes.” Silence followed. Sherlock seized the opportunity. “My turn.”

John tensed minutely but nodded.

“Did you always have a difficult relationship with your father?”

“No, like I said, we used to have a fairly happy family life.”

“What happened?”

John paused, wrestling with his desire not to answer. “He lost his job,” he finally let out in a rush of air, “and he couldn’t find a new one, and so he started drinking, and he didn’t stop.”

Sherlock nodded. Allowing the thread of John’s father to rest for the time being.

“What happened? When you overdosed, what traumatic thing happened on one of your missions that led you to want to kill yourself?” John stared at him, waiting.

He took a deep breath. “Someone died. Someone important to me. He was…” Memories flooded him, memories of running with Sherrinford in the field behind their house, of dressing up as pirates together, and laughing till tears ran down their faces. “He was the most important person in my life, and I failed him. I was the reason he died, or rather, my lack of skills was the reason for his death. It was too much for me to bear.”

“Are you gay?” John asked very suddenly, and seemingly out of the blue.

John’s train of thought slowly sunk in. “He was my brother,” Sherlock clarified. “The person who died on the mission was my brother. I had two brothers. Sherrinford was the middle child, and my best friend.”

John nodded solemnly, but repeated his earlier question, undeterred. “Are you gay?”

Sherlock blinked. He didn’t understand. John had never asked him something so… straightforward before. He had danced around the subject for years. One time he’d nearly managed to broach the topic, when Irene had died, but in the end he had swallowed it down.

Now here it was, out in the open, blatant and demanding.

And it wasn’t that Sherlock was embarrassed, or ashamed, or even reluctant to answer it. He had long ago accepted his sexual orientation, no this wasn’t at all about that. He was simply afraid that the answer, the truth of it, would reveal too much. He was nearly convinced that it was the missing puzzle piece. That if John knew that he was gay, he’d also know that Sherlock was hopelessly in love with him. It made no logical sense, but it was an illogical fear.

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes,” he released the truth out into the empty void of space between them.

John physically relaxed. It was fascinating, as if knowing the truth lifted some sort of burden from John’s shoulders. He didn’t have time to analyse it though, before John was asking another question.

“Are you asexual?”

Sherlock was shocked. John was never this forward. Had Sherlock finally pushed him to the breaking point? Was being cooped up in this cottage for three days causing him to act abnormally? His head started spinning with equations, graphs of social cues, and text book definitions to explain this apparent anomaly.

“Sherlock.”

He left his mind palace abruptly, full attention snapping back to John.

“Answer the question.” The request wasn’t demanding or harsh, but it was insistent.

Sherlock studied him. John’s face was set in harsh lines of pure determination. As if he were willing himself to stay there and not to flee, as if he were terrified of the answers to his own questions.

He wondered, if these questions had been sitting in John’s mouth for years, and only now had he mustered enough courage to ask them.

Sherlock didn’t want to answer this particular question though. He had been gambling enough with answering the one before it, but he knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he told John that he was actually interested in sex, he’d be able to suss out the rest. John wasn’t a _complete_ idiot.

He hugged his legs tighter to his chest. “John.”

John clearly understood. He knew Sherlock didn’t want to answer this, could undoubtably hear the ‘please’ behind the single syllable of his spoken name, but he didn’t back down. His steady gaze was unwavering.

Sherlock unwrapped his limbs, planting his feet firmly on the floor, hands resting gently on his knees, ready for the potential fallout. “No, I’m not asexual.”

John’s expression was unreadable. Sherlock loathed it. Loathed not knowing what John thought of it all. Loathed the vulnerability he felt, like some flayed corpse. Chest split open on full display, laid out under the scrutiny of John’s medical gaze.

“What happened with Andrew Turner?” Sherlock snapped out in retaliation, desperate to turn the attention back on John

It worked.

John’s jaw clenched. “Nothing.”

“No lying,” Sherlock reminded him, as he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

Sherlock watched John swallow down his retort as his jaw continued to work, breath even, hand clenched at his side. “He said things, about you.”

“What things?” Sherlock pressed.

John’s hand clenched even tighter. “That you were a psychopath.”

“Unsurprising.”

“That you didn’t care about anyone or anything. That you were using me.” John took in an unsteady breath. “That you were planning on leaving me again.”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. “You tried to kill him because of that?”

John let out a gasp of breath. “What?”

“Mycroft said that his men found Turner in the room after you left, nearly dead.”

“Your brother…” John sniffed, then the corner of his mouth crept upwards, just enough to send a chill down Sherlock’s spine. “Right. No, that’s not why I nearly killed Andrew Turner.”

“Why then?”

John shook his head. “My turn.”

“Why?” Sherlock refused to let this go. Ever since the night he had gotten John drunk, and John had nearly admitted that Turner had tried to rape him, Sherlock had been waiting for the right time to press the matter. This was his chance, to find out what had really happened that night. It had been niggling at the back of his mind for days. He wanted to know, he needed to know, so that he could hunt Turner down and finish what John had started. All John had to do was say the word and he would swiftly destroy Turner. But first he needed to know for certain, he needed to hear John say it. “Why, John?!”

“Why did you kiss me?”

Sherlock stuttered to a halt. He sat up slowly, eyes never leaving John’s determined expression. “What?”

John leaned forward, finger pointed at Sherlock. “You started this! You want to know everything about me? Every deep dark secret? Fine! But first you have to answer this question. Why did you kiss me?”

This was the moment. The moment he both feared and longed for. The moment he could finally tell John the truth. All he had to do was say it. Say that he had kissed John because he’d wanted to kiss him. That he’d wanted every part of John for as long as he could remember.

That he was hopelessly and ridiculously in love with John. That he had been from the moment he’d uttered the words ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’.

He could. He could just say it. All of it. He was about to say it, but then…

“I was curious.”

John’s face crinkled up in confusion.

And Sherlock hated it. Hated how his heart ached for the man seated across from him. Hated that he longed for John so deeply it made him nauseous, lightheaded, and sweaty. It made him feel human.

Most of all, he hated that he’d had his chance, had been given a million and one chances, to tell John that he loved him, that his entire universe revolved around him…yet he’d squandered them all.

And now… John wasn’t free to return Sherlock’s feelings.

Worse: even if he could return Sherlock’s feelings, he wouldn’t want to.

“I was curious how you’d react.” He spoke with cool calculated, aloofness.

John’s confusion only grew. He tilted his head, like he always did when he couldn’t fully understand what Sherlock was getting at. It was painfully endearing.

Sherlock hated himself.

“It’s a magic trick.”

John’s face finally fell at the utterance of those words. He instantly turned pale. Ghostly.

“Just a magic trick,” Sherlock spat out. “Always was. Turner was right, I am a psychopath. I’ve told you before, but you didn’t listen. I don’t care about anything, or anyone. That’s the illusion. I made you believe that I cared, but you’re nothing more than my lab rat John. I experiment on you, it’s what I do. Nothing more.”

Complete silence filled the room. John got paler by the second. He sat still, for a painfully long amount of time before one last spark of hope lit him up, and reanimated him.

“Liar,” he accused Sherlock vehemently.

Sherlock had been doing this for years. Pretending not to care. He was a skilled expert at compartmentalising emotions, packing them away into tiny boxes and incinerating them within the bowels of his being.

He tried to do that now, but it ripped at his soul, and he was afraid the pain of it showed on his face. But he pressed onward, washing every trace of emotion from his features before saying, “I promised I wouldn’t lie.”

“Liar!” John bellowed, then stood, face looming before Sherlock, finger pointed so close to his nose that it was nearly touching.

Sherlock leaned back and smiled slowly. “What makes more sense John? That I’ve been using you this entire time? Or that I actually care?”

John faltered, hands falling to his sides, fists clenched. “You do care,” but his words sounded feeble.

Sherlock smirked. “I get bored. You help pass the time.”

He expected John to yell, to scream in rage, and then flee. It was his usual M.O, it was how he habitually reacted. He’d leave, let off some steam, and then trudge back, pretending that they’d never argued.

What Sherlock did not expect was John deflating. He didn’t expect John to slump back into his chair, bowed over, head in his hands.

An uneasiness began to grow in Sherlock’s stomach. It grew and swelled at an alarming rate.

Time passed, and the longer John sat there the more tremulous his stomach became.

John looked so small. It wasn’t right. It was obscene. He looked so small and defeated and those were two things John should never, ever appear to be.

Then John suddenly let out a very shaky breath and lifted his head, and the sight that greeted Sherlock ripped the lungs directly out of his aching chest.

John’s eyes were red, and watery. He was crying.

Sherlock’s stomach lurched at the sight. He could see it now, all of it. He could see the toll the last year had taken on John written in every deep line on his face, in level of sorrow in his eyes, in the weary slump of his shoulders.

Sherlock had done this to him. Sherlock had jumped off of a building and…

…effectively destroyed John Watson.

No. Nononononononono.

He stood abruptly. He couldn’t stay here. He needed to go. He needed to leave. The weight of this was too unbearable. He couldn’t take one more minute of looking at John Watson in this state, knowing that it was entirely his fault. Knowing that he had driven John to tears, and anguish. The guilt of it all was too much.

He headed straight for the back door.

His head was a riot, the very foundations of his mind palace shaking and groaning. He lifted his hands to his hair and pulled, allowing the pain to ground him enough to escape the cottage, to make it through the door and out into the cold frigid air.

Very faintly, so faint he could have been imagining it, he thought he heard John’s voice calling him back, but he couldn’t go back.

There was no going back.

He broke out into a sprint towards the ocean, eyes fixed upon the distant shore.


	19. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a sudden moment of clarity. An epiphany so strong it nearly knocked him over. His entire universe shifted on an axis and he wondered how he was still standing there, breathing, after the knowledge of this incredible revelation settled upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm alive and still writing this story!!!! Sorry it's been forever since I've updated... hopefully this chapter will make it all worth it. <3

 

“Sherlock.”

…

John sat alone in the cottage, staring blankly at the ashen fireplace. He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, just sat and stared at the charred logs, trying desperately to process everything that had just happened.

The words had been stuck in John’s throat for years. He’d never been able to utter them before, and he wasn’t sure what had given him the courage to utter them now.

He’d known since their first case, since Angelo’s, that women were not Sherlock’s area, but then there had been Irene, and Janine… If he were being honest with himself, he’d always known the truth, but for some reason he’d refused to really see it, examine it.

 _You see but you don’t observe_.

Observe…

Sherlock was lying. He had to be lying. He wasn’t an emotionless machine, he wasn’t just using John, despite all the glaring evidence (pretending to die and leaving for two fucking years) that he cared nothing for John, and only liked to have him around to stave off the boredom. John could feel in his gut that it wasn’t true. It was just a lie, a wall he used to protect himself.

John reeled at the sudden realisation.  Sherlock did feel.  How had he managed to convince himself otherwise for so long?  How terrified had he been of Sherlock's emotions, that he'd convinced himself time and again that Sherlock didn't have them?  But now, faced with the very real possibility that Sherlock was indeed emotionless, John knew with every fibre of his being that it wasn't true.

Sherlock was incredibly human, the most human, human John had ever known.

Before allowing himself to over-think things any further, John leapt from his chair and ran off after Sherlock.

The cold Irish air stung him like a slap as the door slammed shut behind him. A brief thought of going back for a coat entered his mind, but was quickly dismissed the moment he spotted Sherlock in the distance, running towards the sea.

All thought left him then, as he took off in a sprint towards him.

“Sherlock!” he called out, hoping that the sound of his voice would at least slow the dark distant figure down, but he knew in an instant that Sherlock couldn’t possibly have heard him, the wind was blowing against him, carrying his voice off in the opposite direction.

His feet pounded heavily, against sand, and stone, and grass. Blessedly, it wasn’t raining, but dark grey clouds hung heavily in the sky as he drew nearer to the crashing waves.

The closer they got to the ocean, the more his lungs burned, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. At last, Sherlock reached the shore and stopped, standing silhouetted against the storm blue sea. He looked like some sort of pale spectre, an archangel, a shipwrecked sailor. His dark curls twisted and tore in the wind, his white button up shirt billowed like a sail. He looked ethereal to John. An apparition.

John stopped several feet short of Sherlock, bending over to catch his breath, hands on his knees, eyes staring at the fine grains of sand now covering his oxford shoes.

Once his lungs stopped heaving, and his heart slowed to a steady rhythm, John straightened, eyes focused on Sherlock. His tall thin frame was still turned away from John, facing the frothing, foaming ocean. John had no idea if Sherlock knew of his presence, hardly anything could be heard over the sound of the crashing waves.

John hesitated to call out to him, he was too reverently entranced by the sight of his figure, standing starkly against the many shades of grey and blue, stretching out before him to infinity.

God, he was beautiful, John thought. Even the depth and breadth of the ocean couldn’t compare.

“Sherlock,” he finally managed.

He watched as Sherlock’s back tensed, as if bracing for a blow.

“Sherlock,” he began again, softer. “I…” He had no idea what to say. His brain had been on hold for the long trek to the beach.

What to say? What was there to say? He’d never been good at this, at talking, and sharing his thoughts or feelings verbally. Words came to him easily in written form, but there was something about speaking them aloud that didn’t work. Words felt too thick in his throat, they lodged themselves there, refusing to come out. His heart began to pound nervously.

This was important. This was Sherlock, and for Sherlock he would learn to talk. With a deep breath he pushed forward, “I don’t believe you. I know you. You pretend not to feel, to be a machine, I don’t know why, but you do. Maybe you’re afraid of someone hurting you, and I understand that, I get it, but Sherlock… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock stood frozen, unmoving.

John ran a hand through his tousled hair and closed his eyes briefly, defeated by his own words. A gust of frozen air blew past, seeping into his bones. “It’s fucking freezing out here. Come inside and we can talk.”

Sherlock remained unmoved.

John took two steps closer, watched the ripple of muscle in Sherlock’s back, the way his fist flexed. “I’m sorry I asked you those questions, you answered them, and you didn’t have to, but you did.” John felt like he was grasping at straws, he didn’t know what to say, what words would make the tension running between them dissipate. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

Sherlock suddenly swung around to face John fully. The harsh lines of his face were etched with anger. He looked more violent than the thrashing ocean behind him. “You’re apologising to me?”

John blinked. “Yes.”

Sherlock tipped his head back and barked out a harsh, mad shout of laughter. He returned his gaze to John, with nothing but seriousness (all mirth wiped away). “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t apologise.”

Anger was building up inside of him. Anger at himself, at Sherlock, at the entire situation. “Don’t apolo— What the fuck… Sherlock, I’m trying to talk to you. I’m trying to fix this,” he gestured with his hand between them.

“Why?” Sherlock demanded.

“Why? Because I care, you sodding git. Listen, I’m sorry I upset you—”

“You upset me?!” Sherlock scoffed.

“Yes!” John’s fist tightened into a ball. “You came out here, in the freezing cold, you’re obviously upset about something.”

Sherlock gaped at him openly. “Are you dense?”

John cocked his head. “What?”

Ice blue eyes closed slowly, then opened again with renewed determination. “Leave me alone,” he ordered.

John didn’t move.

“Go!” Sherlock bellowed above the thunderous waves, then turned to face the ocean again, wordlessly shutting John out.

Frustration grew inside of him as he watched the harsh outline of Sherlock’s tense back. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock stay out here to freeze to death. John stalked forward and grabbed a long pale arm and yanked it, fully prepared to drag Sherlock back to the cottage.

Sherlock flinched at John’s touch, tearing his arm from John’s grasp as if John had burned him. He turned to face John fully, eyes wild as the wind. “Don’t!”

“Sherlock, the sky is about to tear open, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to leave you out here to freeze!”

“Who cares?!” Sherlock raged. He was manic, bordering on hysterical. Dark hair blowing wildly in the wind, pale skin blotched with pink.

“I do, you utter tit. Now get your arse over here.” John reached for him again, but Sherlock reeled backwards. His reaction made John stop in his tracks. “Sherlock—“

“Liar!” Sherlock shouted, scaring a nearby gull into flight.

John froze, heart clenching painfully.

The waves crashed beside them.

Sherlock had crumpled in on himself, breathing heavily, hands buried in his hair and eyes closed as if in pain.

John desperately wanted to reach out to him, but he had no idea how Sherlock would react. At the moment, it seemed as if he was the last person on earth Sherlock wanted touching him. Instead he stood and waited.

Another wave crashed against the shore.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked directly at John. His gaze was piercing. John’s breath caught in his chest.

“Stop acting like you care,” Sherlock spoke so quietly John could barely hear him above the waves.

Rage spiked in John’s gut. “Of course I care!”

“You’ve no business caring!” Sherlock bellowed.

“What the hell are you on about?! I’m your best friend, of course I bloody well care.”

“You have a wife, and a child. You shouldn’t even be here. You should be with them.” Sherlock spat out harshly, intending to injure John with his words, but John wasn’t nearly as stupid as Sherlock seemed to think he was. He could clearly see the fear in Sherlock’s eyes, could hear the undercurrent of pain in his voice.

And just like that.

John knew the truth.

It was a sudden moment of clarity. An epiphany so strong it nearly knocked him over. His entire universe shifted on an axis and he wondered how he was still standing there, breathing, after the knowledge of this incredible revelation settled upon him.

 _Sherlock Holmes was in love with him_.

Sherlock was right, John was incredibly dense. How had he never seen it before? How had he been so blind for so long? The truth of this knowledge enlightened everything. Put everything into such stark clarity that John suddenly realised he’d been blearily stumbling through life before now, like a man in desperate need of prescriptive glasses.

The path ahead was clear to him, he knew exactly what needed to be said.

“Well, I’m not, am I? I’m with you right now. So stop pushing me away.” He stepped forward.

Sherlock stumbled back.

“You’re the one who’s lying. You care. You care so bloody much. Don’t you?” He took another step forward.

Sherlock stepped back again, eyes widening imperceptibly, but John noticed, he could literally feel the panic radiating off of Sherlock as his own confidence grew.

“I have one more question, and don’t bother lying, because I’ll know if do.”

“What?” The word escaped Sherlock’s lips on an exhale of disbelief.

John squared his shoulders as if entering the battlefield, feeling the same sort of commanding calm he always did when jumping headfirst into danger. “Are you in love with me?”

Another wave broke upon the shore.

Sherlock didn’t move an inch, didn’t even breathe.

John was holding his breath as well.

After an eternity Sherlock finally managed to whisper, “what?”

John clenched his jaw. “You heard me.” On the outside he was as calm and still as the grey clouds above them, but inside he felt just as turbulent as the mighty ocean. His heart was beating frantically, like a caged bird against his ribs.

Sherlock stood frozen. Unmoving. Unblinking.

His stillness alone was answer enough for John, but he needed to hear Sherlock say it.

He was desperate for Sherlock to say it.

“You’re mocking me.” Sherlock finally managed to spit out viciously.

“No.” John shook his head, “I’m not.” He swallowed down his own fear that he’d somehow gotten this all horribly wrong. “I need to hear you say it. Sherlock Holmes, are you in love with me?”

“No.”

John’s heart stuttered to a sudden, painful stop.

Sherlock shook his head frantically, dark curls damp from the ocean spray, whipping in his face. “No, I’m not going to answer.”

John’s heart restarted with a jolt. He swayed where he stood, head light and dizzy from lack of oxygen. God, he needed to remember to breathe. He took in a deep breath. “You have to answer.” His composure was slipping, he could hear the desperation in his own voice.

“I don’t have to!” Sherlock was yelling again, face flushed with anger. “Why must I answer? What more do you want from me?! I’ve given you everything! I’ve sacrificed myself time and time again on the alter of you affection. I planned your wedding! I shot a man to keep your lying, murderous wife safe. All for you!” Sherlock stopped to heave in several large lungfuls of air. “What more do you want from me?”

“Sherlock—“ John stepped forward.

“No!” Sherlock scrambled back. “No!” he cried out so loudly his voice cracked. He tore at his hair again, and looked up into the darkening sky above him. When he lowed his head, hands falling limply to his sides, his face was streaked with tears, eyes red.

John ached to go to him.

“Fine,” Sherlock sounded so defeated it tore at John’s heart. “You want me to admit that I’m in love with you? Is that what you want?” He looked at John with wet, swollen eyes, anger seeping into his voice again.

A deafening wave crashed against the shore, mere feet away from them, just as the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky.

Sherlock took a deep breath… “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the very first time I saw you. And you’ve ruined me.” Sherlock declared, another tear running down his cheek, mixing with the rain. “You’ve absolutely ruined me for anyone or anything else, ever again.”

The sky finally tore open, rain falling down upon them in sheets. John stood still for a single heartbeat, then surged forward, grabbed Sherlock’s face in both hands and kissed him hard.

This kiss was different from their first. This kiss was full of passion, desperation, and hunger. It was borne of years of repressed feelings, unspoken desires, denied longings. It was the culmination of everything they’d ever wanted, but never thought they could have.

Sherlock dissolved beneath John, mouth opening wide, begging him to enter, to devour. John took the invitation with relish and fervour, delving into Sherlocks open, pliant mouth with an unquenchable thirst.

Even over the thundering sound of the ocean, John could hear Sherlock’s soft whimpering sounds... _or maybe they were his own_? He grasped Sherlock’s face in both hands tighter, angling his head just so, deepening the kiss even further.

Kissing Sherlock was unlike anything John ever experienced before. It was like laying on the warm sand in Afghanistan looking up at the stars. It was like holding a gun in his hands for the first time and shooting straight through the target. It was like restarting someone’s heart, like running through the streets of London at night chasing after a crazed serial killer. It was all of those things combined and more.

It was finally coming home.

They kissed for what felt like an eternity in the driving rain. After awhile Sherlock’s hands roved up, one gripping John’s neck, the other weaving into his hair. With a strangled moan, Sherlock surged forward in an attempt to give as good as he’d been getting.

John’s knees nearly gave out as Sherlock’s tongue swept itself into his mouth. This was the best kiss of his entire life, John distantly thought, as they continued to consume one another with complete and utter abandon, impervious to the freezing cold, or the soaking rain.

Suddenly Sherlock was pushing away from him. John’s stomach swooped with panic at the loss of Sherlock’s mouth on his.

No, no, no, no, no… John’s heart pounded against his chest.

But Sherlock didn’t go far, instead he seemed to be steadying himself, hands still gripping John fiercely, as if John might disappear at any moment. Sherlock was breathing in short shallow gasps, eyes fixed on John’s lips. When he finally looked up, his expression nearly broke John’s heart. “John…” was all he said, but John could hear every unspoken word that came after, just by looking in his eyes.

“Hey,” John pulled Sherlock’s face down to rest their foreheads together. “I know… Alright. I know. I’m not going anywhere Sherlock. I’m choosing you, alright? This isn’t just— I’m not just using you. I would never do that to you. When we get back to London, I’m divorcing Mary, we’ll figure out custody. But I’m not leaving you, not ever again. Alright?”

Sherlock pulled back to look in John’s eyes, searchingly. He still looked so vulnerable, so uncertain.

John ran his thumbs over Sherlock’s wet cheekbones, as the rain continued to streak down his face. “God, I love you.”

Sherlock gasped.

John suddenly realised he hadn't yet told him. “I love you,” he repeated more fiercely, eyes locked with Sherlock’s. “I love you, so fucking much. I’ve always loved you, Sherlock. Always.”

Sherlock stared at him silently.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot, that it’s taken me so long—“ He didn’t get to finish before Sherlock’s mouth was on his again.

After several more minutes (or possibly hours), John felt an uncontrolled shiver run through Sherlock’s body. For the first time in what felt like forever, John was aware of the cold, and the rain.

They were both soaked to the bone now, and shivering.

With a herculean effort, John slowed their kiss down till it was sweet, and languid. “Sherlock,” he murmured between nips of tongue and teeth, “we should…” John lost his train of thought as Sherlock’s tongue traced his bottom lip, then sucked it into his mouth. “We should—“ he tried again, “go back to the cottage.”

Sherlock responded by dipping his tongue into John’s mouth, and they were lost once more…

“God, your mouth,” John managed to get out just before nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock gripped John’s hair tightly, just as another violent shiver of cold wracked his thin frame. “Sherlock,” John insisted this time, pushing Sherlock back with more force. The departure of Sherlock’s mouth on his, nearly killed him. “We really should head back, we’re going to freeze to death.”

“Boring,” Sherlock murmured, then dove straight back to John’s mouth, but John kept him back, already knowing that if they started kissing again, they’d never stop.

“Come back to the cottage,” John’s voice dropped, “and let me strip you of these clothes.”

Sherlock shivered again, and John had a strong suspicion it had nothing to do with the cold.

Sherlock sighed, forehead touching John’s, “fine.”

“I love you,” John couldn’t help reiterating.

Sherlock broke into the brightest smile John had ever seen.  He took Sherlock’s hand and led them in the direction of the cottage, and blessed warmth.

Somewhere behind them a wave broke upon the shore, and John thought of how amazing it felt, to have Sherlock’s hand clutching his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that inspired this story, and most of all this chapter:  
> [Kissing You by Des'ree](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLgD8z9vSXY)

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added as the story progresses. 
> 
> A great big thanks to my wonderful and talented Beta: Sussexbound
> 
> Thank you all for reading!! Comments are love, and I greatly appreciate you leaving them!!
> 
>  
> 
> [Cover Art](http://londoninjune.tumblr.com/post/132285622674)
> 
>  
> 
> Where to find me:  
> [My Tumblr](http://londoninjune.tumblr.com)


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